


(You're) In Heaven—But I'm Not

by KorrohShipper



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Amnesiac Lucifer Morningstar, Angst, Deckerstar — Freeform, F/M, Homophobia, Hurt, Violence, post season 5a
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: "Amenadiel," she began, still glancing around her, looking for her partner, and horribly fails to remove the dread she feels, "where's Lucifer?"
Relationships: Amenadiel & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 38
Kudos: 433





	1. "It Was So Different"

When he stood in front of her, flustered, Chloe would have to admit that a part of her was scared of the truth.

The mere possibility of what the truth was, actually. She thinks back to that night on the balcony where, despite what happened, everything made sense—she and Lucifer were on the same page, they had understanding, and she knew, for all intents and purpose, she knew what he held in his heart and she was sure.

But the two months that passed by for her isn't what he felt. He was there for thousands of years. From Linda's explanation, a single minute felt like a day. From Malcolm's explanation, she learned recently from Amenadiel, his 30-seconds of Hell felt like 30 years.

For her, he's been gone for two months but Lucifer had gone through centuries upon centuries, a little more than half a millenia. That's more than a lifetime, more than enough to change someone, even the Devil.

And while a part of her braces for the truth, for when he will admit to her that their relationship had changed, that it's something he can no longer pursue, she has spent enough time pushing him away. Chloe knows, in her heart of hearts, that if this is something he needs to do, then she'll respect his decision.

She'll give him the dignity of his choice. After all, for what it's worth, the choice of having a choice is what he fought for in the first place. Chloe would never take that away from him.

"Detective, _I do_ , of course, I do."

But then, his bewilderment, shock, and fluster slowly morphed into something else, something different. 

"It's. . ."

"Right, right." Disappointment probably showed on her face because there was a sense of panic the way he read her response.

"No, dete—" he catches himself, mid-sentence before he sighs, his slow ascention from confusion to a startling confidence that had her looking up. " _Chloe_."

 _Chloe_. Her name.

The way his shaking had ceased when he said her name calms her, in a way. His eyes are still restless, though, looking for an anchor but he slowly settles on her hands—she feels self-conscious, no doubt, having spent the better part of her day locked away in an abandoned zoo wouldn't do wonders for one's self esteem, especially is one's partner is a celestial angel.

She is afraid to meet his gaze, but she looks up nonetheless when she remembers, again, that night at the balcony. It's her.

_My first love was never Eve. It was you, Chloe, it always has been._

He's never said it. Not once. This was his first time saying it.

"I. . ." he struggled to breath, like that time when he was paralyzed by the copycat killer, "I lo—"

When the words slowly piece together, she allows herself to look up, finally. He is still rambling, trying to piece together the words, but she could see it, in the way he takes down his defenses, the way the knots and tension in his shoulders melt away and she thinks this is it. After everything they've been through, this is finally what they'll have—after subjecting the entire precinct through their _will-they-won't-they_ song and dance, the near patented Ross-and-Rachel routine they've been putting themselves through, they'll finally have this one moment of respite.

The beginning of a happy ending.

And she thinks he is going to say it when there is nothing.

The space in front of her is void of anything and anyone. Instead, she hears the sound of about a thousand pieces of glass falling to the ground and entire precinct whispering about it.

Side-stepping her way outside the closet, she is blinded by a light. It is unusually bright, Chloe thinks to herself as she twists around, trying to spot Lucifer's familiar frame or his silhouette but she does not see him. He is nowhere to be found.

Many of her co-workers are huddled around the shattered glass pane. Some are wondering, she knows deep down, an experience she will not miss from her time as being in the dark of it all, what broke the glass or when it broke.

 _Or who_ , she thinks to herself. But he is still not around to be found—

"Amenadiel!"

Chloe's head whipped towards the direction of the voice. It was Linda and she made her way towards Amenadiel, who sat along the steps of the main staircase of the beating.

He looked worse for wear, that he had seen better days. While there's a sense of calm because he's an angel, she thinks of what exactly can have him heavily breathing and visibly injured.

"How did you—" Linda's eyes widened, "—are your powers back?"

He looked confused and conflicted. "Maybe," he floundered, his mouth gaping as he look up at the ceiling, at the window which helped the brightest beams of light Los Angeles has ever seen seep into their precinct. "I don't know. . .it was so _different_. I didn't control or slow down time, I stopped it."

But, as always, Amenadiel snaps back into attention. "Charlie," he says quickly and with urgency, "where's Charlie?"

As if on cue, one of the police officers rolled the stroller to them and she sees Amenadiel almost collapse in relief. 

She makes her way to the family and up close, she sees the damage on his face and the bruising on his fists that she's sure wasn't there a moment earlier. "Amenadiel," she began, still glancing around her, looking for her partner, and horribly fails to remove the dread she feels, "where's Lucifer?"

"Chloe, I—" he stares at the large window and back at her and he shakes his head.

"No," she says firmly before teisting out of the hold he has on her now. "Let me go, Amenadiel. _Lucifer_!"

She managed to get out of his hold and she began speed-walking around the floor, stopping anyone she could, asking everyone if they've seen him. "Chloe—"

"No!" she snaps and she knows she is being unfair. Whatever happened, she knows it is not his fault. But there is a churning in the pit of her stomach that tells her he knows what happened. "Where is he?"

"Lucifer, he—he and Michael, they were taken."

" _Taken_?" she parroted, rather incredulously, honestly, because she thinks how on earth could two celestial beings with super strength or whatever could possibly be taken against their will.

"Chloe, it's my father. God. He took them."

The thought stumbles over in her mind. "Where?" she barely chokes out.

"The Silver City." Chloe nods at the information.

"Is there a way to, er—" she fumbles over the words, trying not to feel a sense of dread. It's God, right? He's still their father, and they always want the best for their children, "—do you know why? Why he took them away?"

She barely says _them_ but Amenadiel knows she means _him_. 

"I couldn't stop him." 

It only occurs to her now that his fist is clenched tightly. Linda notices, too, and she is the one who is brave enough to pry them open. In his palm was a crumbled piece of cloth and she gave a grimace. It was the pocket square Lucifer had been wearing.

"I begged father, but he wouldn't listen. Lucifer tried to break free. . .but it was no use. Dad's stronger than any of us combined. I tried to keep hold of him but—" Amenadiel's face contorts in equal parts of disbelief and pain, "I couldn't. This is all I have."

She didn't know how or when, but the crumpled pocket square was deposited into her hands.

In her hands, the crumpled pocket square easily weighs down on her, it stings at her palm but she could not bring herself to let go, scared as if it would disappear in a blink of an eye like Lucifer. That the entire events of two months ago will have come to a horrible immitation, a Hell loop of her own where she thinks that everything is going to be fine until he is ripped from her time and again.

"I tried to follow them, but—" Amenadiel's eyes glistened with tears, "—I can't get in. The Gates of Heaven are locked. Dad locked the Gates of Heaven."


	2. "Pulled A Lucifer"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Chloe_ ," she breathes out. "Of course you use my name as your safe's passcode."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags & Warnings:
> 
> (Semi) Graphic Depiction of Violence  
> Homophobia

It's the little signs here and there that hurts her most. One day, when she's passing by the break room for instance, she'd see Dan's pudding and how it's labelled and still there. Or how the cool ranch puff in the vending machine will remain unraided by anyone. It was like that, the first time around, too.

There is a voice that whispers in her ear, a lingering voice that echoes in the back of her mind whenever she thinks she sees him in the corner of her eyes but fails to find him.

Everything feels like a ghastly recap of the two months after Lucifer went back to Hell.

The 2 weeks he's gone feels just as empty and wrong as the 2 months before.

There's this gnawing, gut-wrenching feeling that bubbles inside her, an almost cruel voice that whispers endlessly on how she's failed Lucifer.

" _Lucifer tried to break free_."

Inside her palm, she sees that crumpled pocket square. She's been holding on to it ever since Amenadiel told her what happened. It is an irrational thought, but somehow, she thinks, if she is to let go of it, it'll disappear in a blink of an eye the way Lucifer did.

He tried to break free. It is a special kind of torture, Chloe is sure, but she can't help the image as it forms in her mind, how Lucifer would fight tooth and nail to break free before, how he would claw his way out, hold on to Amenadiel, yelling, calling out her name and all she could think was that she wasn't there.

He needed her when he was at his most vulnerable and she wasn't there for him.

Chloe blinks away her tears, the white noise of the precinct jarring her back to reality.

There is a new case that feels unsolvable, and working on it without Lucifer honestly feels wrong, incomplete, as if there's a missing link that she couldn't connect. 

She's been working on the case for over a week, and she's exactly where she was when she was first assigned to it—nowhere.

The buzzing of her phone jars her back to reality—it is a text from Dan, a picture he's taken of Trixie grinning as her mouth is smeared with ice cream, the Statue of Liberty visible in the background.

At least, for a while, she wouldn't have to worry about keeping a strong front for Trixie every time she asked where Lucifer was. Dan, thankfully, mellows down in his shock from the post-Devil reveal. 

She knows that she'll have to talk to Dan, but he's starting to wrap his head around the concept of divinity.

Chloe groaned into her palm and sighed, trying to shale away all thoughts of anything God-related—and failing horribly—as she steels her and walks over to the forensic lab. 

"Hi, Ella, got anything?"

A tinge of guilt crosses her for a second. After everything that's happened, she's been caught up in the aftermath of Lucifer's disappearance and covering for him that she forgot to check in with Ella.

Their CSI was already going through a crisis of faith when Charlotte had been killed. Just when things were starting to look up, when everything was seemingly falling into place, a man she had began to trust—to open up to—had been the real Whisper Killer all along.

Ella looked up from her computer and gave a small smile, a small strained smile that looked like it was more for the benefit of others than herself. "Hey, Chlo," greeted the CSI, whose gaze trailed behind her, "still no Luce?"

Chloe gave a shaky breath, "Ah, no, he's still sick. You know, flu season."

That had been their cover, how long it will stand, she really didn't know. But for now, with Amenadiel's help, the story stood and no one was looking around for answers. "So, anyways, our vic is Damon Atlee," Chloe peers over the photographs and her stomach churns uncomfortably. 

The scene is. . . _bloody_ , to say the least.

Damon Atlee is on the floor of his apartment's kitchen, the blood pooling over his head like a red halo. There is a shattered wine glass near the kitchen table, signs of struggle leading up to where his body was, a trail.

The trail of fallen objects suggests that their victim had already been injured before he fell down—he was probably trying to stay upright as the killer approached him and locked and cornered him in the kitchen.

They had trouble identifying their vic even with facial reconstruction because of the damage: the victim's head is bashed in by an aluminum bat, 27 hits to the the head, the cranium cracking at the third blow and the fourth had killed him.

Time of death is placed around 6 to 7 PM.

She couldn't imagine the amount of anger it takes to do that. She thinks, if Lucifer was here, he'd grumble under his breath and try his very best to keep his eyes from flashing red: " _Look at this, detective, a **bonafide** scum of this earth. I promise you, we **will** bring this slimy miscreant to justice_."

All of that damage, all unnecessary, was done post-mortem. The nature of the crime suggests that it's a crime of passion, going so far as to disfigure the victim long after he's dead. The murder weapon also caught her eye—in a small, almost bare apartment save for the Hollywood memorabilias and vintage movie posters, he was murdered with an aluminum Louisville Slugger baseball bat, which Ella places its date of production sometime around the late 80's.

Unfortunately, whoever killed Damon had been smart enough to cover their tracks. The bat had been cleaned of prints, the apartment building's visitor log was clear, no camera footage, and no witness. It's almost as if a ghost killed Damon.

The killer probably knew the victim in a way that Damon probably trusted them not to be murderous. No items appeared to be missing and there was no visible break-in; Damon definitely knew his killer.

But that's the problem. Everyone Damon knew wasn't in Los Angeles—a newly minted resident of LA of three months, he's originally from Detroit, an aspiring actor with nothing under belt as of the moment, which made Chloe's head hurt. She knows how difficult that was.

Employment history hadn't been helpful. His first three months in LA had been taken up with taking care of his living arrangements. Damon had been financially backed by his mother, Carol Atlee, and was lined up to get a job interview at a local bar to sideline as a waiter while he tried to work the scenes as an actor. So far, everyone in LA who knew him was the next door neighbor, a young fellow twenty-something man named Jason Browning, who found his body two days after the murder with an ironclad alibi and the landlord who he barely spoke to.

"Decker!" 

She is jarred back to reality when an older detectice knocked on the glass pane of Ella's lab. She is startled, for a moment, jumping in her spot and turning too quickly. A part of her hoped that it was Lucifer—rapid and incessant window tapping had been so characteristically Lucifer that when it wasn't him, when her heart caught up to her smarts, there is an ache in her chest that blossoms.

It's not him.

"Yeah?"

"Vic's mom just got in. She's in interrogation."

* * *

If there's one thing Chloe could be certain of is that she loves Trixie more than anything in this world, that if anything were to happen to her daughter, her world might just collapse.

Just by looking through the two-way mirror in of the interrogation room, she knew that Carol Atlee's world had collapsed.

She had been in New York when the LAPD reached her and informed her of Damon's death. From the phone call alone, Chloe knew the devastation of a parent's world being shattered. 

Seeing enough, Chloe entered the interrogation room with a sympathetic and empathic look but she didn't look up—Carol kept looking at the picture that she nursed in her hand, gingerly touching the edges, just barely keeping herself from crumpling the photo in her palm and pressing it against her heart.

Carol is shaking, in grief and anger and hurt and a surge of feeling rushed over Chloe, the same burst in her blood that told her she had to avenge her father's murder. 

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Atlee," she says softly, meaning it entirely. 

"Carol, please," she answers back, not bothering to look up. "I haven't been Mrs. Atlee for a very long while."

Chloe raised a brow at this. "You're, uh, divorced?" Carol nodded and fished out her wallet from her bag. Spreading the wallet open, she slid over a somewhat dated photograph.

"Martin and I are divorced for around 9, 10 years—" her eyes widened, "—oh, no, Martin, have you told him yet?"

Chloe shook her head. "We haven't heard from him yet." When they got a match for their vic and got other background information. Martin Atlee had been in Canada and they couldn't reach him.

Carol pursed her lips and Chloe got a look at just how bloodshot and puffy her eyes were. "I think he's in Toronto, or maybe Ontario, I'm not sure. Martin has a bad heart, I—I think I should be the one to tell him," then a tight look crossed her face before a stoic facade crumpled. "Oh, he's going to be devastated, they were supposed to meet up next week, they were. . .they were going to mend fences and now—oh, God!"

Inwardly, Chloe grimaced. God had nothing to so with this. "Um, so, Damon and his father were on the outs?" Chloe cleared her throat and for a moment felt pity for the man. Here he is, his only son is dead, and any hopes for a reconciliation is gone.

"Martin loved Damon, with all his heart, he does," Carol whispered in a low, emotional voice. "But they're both very set in their ways, detective. They often butted heads. My ex-husband can be old-fashioned, you could say, controlling. He's been grooming our son to take over the law firm ever since he was a boy, and Damon was dating this wonderful girl, Daniella—a senior partner's daughter—and they were engaged, at one point but. . .when my son decided to call off the engagement and leave Detroit become an actor, Martin didn't take it well." 

She tried to visualize it: a father who maps out his son's life and everything is going according to plan then suddenly Damon threw a wrench into the gears. 

She also tries to view Damon: a son who's been given a script to follow, never really truly allowed himself to be the person that he is, and he finally gets that voice to break free.

The tension alone is understandable and reasonably there.

Chloe found herself nodding, wondering what it would be like if Lucifer is with her inside the interrogation room. He would've brought out his flask and took a long swig of whatever alcohol is in there. " _And what do we have here, detective, yet another son who couldn't follow Dad's **bloody** grand plans and his mysterious ways!_" Chloe imagines his voice, how it would raise certain octaves when the case hits a sore topic. His look would have darkened and she would have sent him pointed looks to stop because a woman was grieving her only son.

But when Chloe turns to her side, she is only met with an empty chair.

"But an old friend from Detroit—Jimmy, I think? James? _Jonah_? I'm not sure—reaches out to Damon and he decides try and fix things with his dad. Martin and Damon, they had just began to talk to one another. Damon kept telling me how excited he was to meet up with his father—" she shudders in her shaky breathing, "—I don't know how anyone could do this to my baby!"

Unable to stay unaffected, Chloe sniffled. "We're doing all that we can to bring his killer to justice, Carol. Now you mentioned you're close with your son? Do you know anyone with a grudge against Damon."

"No, Damon is a kind soul. He couldn't hurt a fly!"

"Is there anyone he's talked about recently, any fear that maybe someone is out to get him?"

Carol gave her a torn look, that helpless look of being unable to help. "I'm sorry, detective, really. Damon's never mentioned anyone wanting to hurt him." 

"Well, thank you, anyways. We'll do our best to give your son the justice he deserves."

Unfazed, Carol gave her this jarring look, "Are you a mother, detective?"

She nods. "I am. A daughter, she's my entire world."

"Good," Carol coughs and takes her hand in hers, the grip tight and clutching to her as if she was a lifeline, "then you understand that you would do anything for your child."

"I do."

"Catch that. . . _that bastard_ who did this to my Damon, detective. Make them pay."

* * *

Visiting the crime scene post-clean up always struck a nerve in Chloe, especially if the crime scene is the victim's home.

Imagine a life, imagine leaving trails of simply being there and it suddenly stops. 

She remembers her apartment whenever Lucifer stayed for game nights with Trixie—the longer he stayed, the more evident it was that he was actually there.

The Corvette's keys would either be on the kitchen counter or blending in with the decoratice centerpiece of her dining table; his jacket hanging over the backrest of a dining chair or bundled up as Trixie uses it as a pillow when they're watching a movie; his wallet always on the coffee table because when they order pizza, insufferable as he may be sometimes, he would never let the delivery man go without a hundred dollar bill as a tip.

The small signs of being there, a sign that they were there is almost depressing when those signs stop appearing, or when they're all boxed up, as if that's all their life is, all they're going to be after they're gone—a box of small of belongings all packed up just to collect dust.

She imagines him, just lurking by her side before something that would inevitably catch his eye, and then when she thinks she sees something important, he would reappear, probably a snack in hand. Lucifer would say something impulsive and borderline inappropriate but she'd get to see the scene in a different light. 

She looks around and he is not there, just like how Damon isn't and will never be. She spots, on the wall, a framed picture. It is Damom with his parents, Carol and Martin. It's his graduation day, and despite being separated, they're both there for their son on his big day. There is another picture of Damon on his graduation day and he poses with another man giving an almost sad and longing smile, a fellow graduate—the mystery man looks familiar.

Her phone buzzes. The phone's bright screen has her squinting at the apartment's dim lights. It's a text from the lieutenant about the father, Martin Atlee. His plane just landed and he's readying at his hotel before going to the precinct.

Chloe takes a deep breath in. She misses him—

There is a sound from the bedroom.

Her back stiffened at the noise and instinctively went for her gun.

Chloe makes her way towards the bedroom slowly. When she reached the door, she pushed her palm against the wooden surface and the door creaked open. "Shit!" the intruder's voice—a male, familiar—sounds and he makes a frantic attempt to run towards the fire exit.

"LAPD!" Chloe yells when the man is just about to escape through the window. He held up his hands, steaight up to the air.

" _Please_!" he cries out, voice heavy with emotion, "Please don't shoot." He begged, voice filled with panic and his arms practically shaking with fear in the air.

Chloe narrows her eyes when he turns around. She puts the gun away. "Jason Browning?" she zeroes in on the only thing out of place in the room: the upturned closet and the safe sitting on the bottom left corner.

"Detective," says Jason cautiously, "I'm not—I'm _not_ the bad guy, I swear."

"Plenty of guilty bad guys have said that, so forgive me for not trusting you entirely." She glances around and deflates a little. The room, for most parts, is untouched. The closet is messed up, yes, but Jason doesn't have anything on him, nothing from the apartment. "Why are you here?"

"Because I think I know who killed Damon."

She raised her brow. "Why didn't you say anything?" she narrows her eyes at him. "I thought you said Damon didn't know anybody in LA, that you don't know anyone who might have a motive to hurt him, to kill him."

"I know!" Jason breathes out, exasperated, throwing his hands in the air, "I know what I said and I lied, detective, because I didn't want to admit it, I didn't want to believe it."

"Believe what?"

"That it's my fault why Damon is dead."

* * *

"What do you mean it's your fault that Damon's dead?"

Jason kneeled on the ground, mumbling things under his breath that she couldn't understand as he turned the dial on the safe. "I just—I just need his journal. If it's the entry is there, then I know I'm right and I need to see if I'm right. Dames kept his journal inside his safe."

" _Dames_?" she parrots, "I thought you said you weren't close."

He looked up at her and shrugged, giving a sad, longing smile. "When Damon moved out to LA, it was really to follow his dream but he had another goal, too. He had to get away from his dad—don't get me wrong, Damon loved his old man but he's too controlling, far too controlling—and there's another reason why."

Chloe's mind flashed to the graduation photo. "You knew him." She also sees the way he clutches his fingers around a framed picture of Damon, "You loved him. You're his friend from Detroit, the one who told him to make up with his father, to mens fences."

"We grew up together—" he curses under his breath when the safe would not open, "—and for the longest time, Damon really wanted to make his Dad proud. At first he went to law school, got his degree, he began dating the daughter of a partner from his dad's firm, he was about to take the BAR but I had to move away."

Chloe's mouth ran dry. "To LA?"

Jason noddes aa he tried to open the safe again but the lock still won't budge. "To LA," he confirms. "I loved Damon, I do, and I knew he wasn't happy so I told him to follow his heart, maybe move out to LA with me."

"He and his Dad had a big fight."

Jason looked like he was a thousand miles away. "You bet they did," he gave her a surprised look, "I think I know the code."

He turned the dial with shaky hands, turning and counting until—

The vault clicked open. "How did you know?" she couldn't help but ask, remembering not long ago that she had been obsessing over a safe at Lucifer's penthouse, not long ago. 

Jason's voice hitched, getting heavy with emotion. "It's my name—52766, in those old phone's number pad, it's my name." He pulled the door open and there it was, the journal Jason had been talking about. He nearly collapses in relief, crying out a little bit and understands. Finding that clue that might pieces it all together, in a way it feels like saying goodbye, like finding that clue makes it all feel real, as if it's the final nail in the coffin.

"Alright, Jason, so who killed Damon?" she peered over as Jason flippes over the pages. There is a pang of hurt when he starts at the end, when she sees all those empty pages. 

"Take a look at this, Detective Decker," he points out to some of the newer entries. "His Dad's going to visit."

"Yeah, his mother told me that he and his Dad were going to patch things up."

"No, look!" he pressed his finger on the sentence and her eyebrows furrows. "Damon said he was picking his Dad at the airport, said something about a sudden trip to Vegas that had him near." And there it is, an entry on the journal. Jason took out his phone out and scrolled up to some of the older messages. 

"It's from Damon." She notes.

' _Jay, Dad's got a client in Vegas, meeting ended early. I'm going to pick him up, maybe try to fix things with him, like you said_.'

A follow up text is sent just a few minutes later:

' _No way, Dad brought some of my old stuff from my room in Detroit!_ '

The text was followed by a picture. It's taken by Damon as a selfie as his father loaded some of his bags into the car. In a banker box has a neatly scribbled label that says **Damon's Room** , and just peeking outside of the side is the handle of an aluminum baseball bat.

Las Vegas, though it wasn't near, it's definitely possible to make a trip to and go back the same day. Jason pulled up a chain of texts. "I was away on a trip and Damon kept texting it was all great between him and his Dad until—" Chloe looked closer, and locks in on a single text bubble sent by Damon, a few hours before his death. 

' _Jay, he knows about you. About us. He's angry. I fucked up real bad, Jay. Dad's real mad_.'

Jason was spiraling. "No, no, Martin wouldn't do this." A picture caught her eye, one pinned against the leather jacket of the journal. It's older. A picture of Damon when he was a kid with his dad in a baseball field, wearing jerseys of the Brooklyn Dodgers and in Martin Atlee's hands was a 1980's Louisville Slugger.

* * *

Chloe knocked on the door of the hotel room.

When the door was pulled open, an older man answered. "May I help you?" 

"Martin Atlee? Detective Chloe Decker, LAPD." She pulls on the flap of her jacket to show the badge that hangs on her waist and Martin steps back, letting her inside the hotel room.

"Has there been a new development on the case?" he asks, voice filled with concern and she couldn't help but shake her head in disgust. 

But she hides it well, "Uhm, yeah. LAPD contacted an old friend of Damon's from Detroit who moved to LA." Martin's back is turned to her and she is unable to see his face. "Maybe you've heard of him, remember him, even, Jason Browning?"

Martin turns around, a stony look to his face with his jaws locked in a grind. "Hmm," he says, the tip of his eyebrow twitching, "I can't say the name sounds familiar. My son had numerous friends growing up. Especially after misguided stint that lead to his moving here to LA."

"Well, how about some of his closer friends?" Chloe pressed further, pushing on the buttons she knows will get a rise from him. "Friends you just found out are a lot more than friends."

"Whatever it is, you're doing, detective, it will stop." He gestures towards the door. "Now, if you'll please leave."

"Where were you, on the day of your son's murder?"

"I was away, detective. On a business trip to Toronto—"

"I've contacted the precinct, we're taking all the files regarding the any firm-sanctioned flights on the day of your son's murder and I have a hunch that it's not the 11:42 PM from LAX to Toronto."

"Bullshit," Martin replies breezily. "My firm has 60 days to fight that subpeona or comply."

"It's not a subpeona, it's a search warrant, approved by a judge. Any minute now, you'll see—" her phone chimes, but it's just a notification of her back-up reaching the lobby of the hotel, but Martin Atlee didn't know that, "—look at that, there's the text."

His cool facade starts to crumple. "Damon had everything and he threw it away!" he yelled, face contorting in a twisted anger, "I had a plan for him, for him to be better and everything would have been alright if that stupid boy didn't go to LA and give up a promising career to be—to be what, a fucking B-movie star?"

"So, that's it, you're angry because he didn't follow some plan you made without considering his feelings, killes him because it's better than not being able to control him?"

"He's a fucking faggot!" Martin yells, his eyes unfocused as he finds a glass bottle and smashes it against the wall, pointing the jagged ends of broken glass at her, "At first I thought I could change him, you know, try to get him to come back to Detroit, go back to his life—but then he told me of how he's in love with a man, that he gave up everything I have worked so hard to line up for him just so he can be a fucking faggot, a fucking homosexual!" 

"So, that's it? You killed your son because he's in love with another man? Because he's in a mature and supportive relationship with a man who encouraged Damon to reach out to you? Because he's not complying to what you want him to be?"

He gave a bark of harsh, dry laughter, the kimd that scrapes against the throat. "Detective, let me tell you in on a secret—as a parent, I gave my child his life and when that life isn't being fulfilled the way it's meant to be, I will take that life back. And I did."

"You're despicable."

"No!" Martin roared. " _Damon_ was despicable. Going against everything I taught him, becoming that freak?! He ended an engagement I've carefully orchestrated just so he could fuck another man?! He's a stain on this earth—I only did what I had to."

"By using that baseball bat?" she asks quietly, a deathly calm to her voice. "The same baseball bat he's had since you took him to a Dodgers game? Didn't that mean anything to you? Your own son?"

She thinks back to Julian McCaffrey and his father. Even those two criminals, at least they had a semblance of humanity, of love for family.

"My son has been dead to me, detective. He's been dead to me three months ago when he decided to—"

"To be his own man? Yeah," she waves off before reaching for her own gun in the moment she distracted him, "save it for the judge. Martin Atlee, you are under arrest for the murder of Damon Atlee. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say will and can be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to a lawyer, if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you or so you not understand these rights?"

The uniformed officers came in the room. "Take him away."

* * *

Martin Atlee, the name and managing partner in a Detroit law firm had fallen into a bad streak, unable to close deals for months on end and the firm was bleeding when it came to him.

The police uncovered evidences of strings of financial fraud committed.

The nature of the act of violence against Damon's body had been a product or homophobia but the reason for fight, which was caught in tape due to a neighbor's bluetooth microphone which somehow tapped into Damon's apartment.

The woman Damon had been dating wasn't the daughter of a senior partner. He was a junior partner poached by Martin for a client. 

A deal that went sideways due to conflicting interest had Martin sitting on an expensive lawyer and no client to come up for—the senior partnership had been his Hail Mary.

The junior partner, Victor Gable, had been nominated by the board to be promoted to senior partner with a buy-in of half a million dollars, a gesture of cementing ties in business and the family, enough money to hide Martin's fraudulent activities and debts that started to weigh down on the firm.

But Damon moved out to LA, to follow Jason Browning and chase his dreams of becoming am actor.

A wrong conversation, a desperate attempt, and a closed-off mind lead to that, to that crime—Chloe felt hee nerves steel off. 

Tonight had been rough, opening up those memories, being constantly reminded of _him_ , but in a way, even though he wasn't with her, not physically, he had helped her.

Tonight, she got Damon Atlee justice.

* * *

She called Trixie the minute she stepped out of that hotel, the minute she watched Martin being carted off by the uniformed officers.

She told her daughter that no matter what happens, no matter who she is, no matter who she wishes to love, she will never stop loving her and supporting her.

While a part of her knows she should get started on the paperwork, Chloe decides against it and drives away to a familiar building instead.

Lux, as usual, is packed. There is a line circling around the block. 

Chloe parks her car just near the entrance, the empty space already had been understood by the staff as her unspoken but unquestioned spot. 

The bouncer gives her a warm nod. "Evening, detective." He steps aside and lets her in, much to the annoyance and irritation of those in line. Any other day, she would have slightly indulged herself in the fact that she, Chloe Jane Decker, is on the VIP list of LA's most exclusive bar and nightclub, but it's been an exhausting day and she's honestly not in that big of a mood to be happy just yet.

Not anytime soon.

Behind the bar, Patrick gives her a nod and she spots the tribe's booth. It's untouched, as always. She wonders if a night of drinking might be what she needs, just a bottle of Lux's top shelf and the vibrance of the club's dance floor.

But, when Lucifer first went away for Hell, she had gone through this before. Frankly, the two months of that pattern had to be bad for liver considering she wasn't privy to a celestial metabolism that had Lucifer drinking liters upon liters of alcohol without feeling the slightest bit affected.

Besides, she wasn't wallowing in unresolved anger and hurt from being left behind, from God taking Lucifer away. 

This is different.

Chloe shakes her head and jabs her thumb over to the elevator. Patrick nods understandingly and shifted his attention back at the bar and fixed a drink for one of the patrons.

She expertly steps around the crowd of people and she only relaxes when she reached the elevator. When the doors closed, she allowed the shaky breath that she had been holding in to trickle out in a shudder.

The elevator gives a sharp _ding!_ when it reaches the penthouse. The doors split open and she allows the cool nighr breeze to wash over her for a minute.

Everything is unchanged, a hope that he will come back and that there wasn't a need to do anything about the penthouse.

But it is still as haunting as the day she switched the lights on and found herself staring at an abandoned penthouse, the furniture covered in white blankets and he is nowhere to be seen. 

As haunting as the day he left for Hell when she thought she'd never see him again.

Chloe lets herself follow this invisible trail towards Lucifer's room. Her eyes, inevitably, lands on the bed. 

She plops down on the side. "I solved it, you know," she says aloud, not really who she wants to listen in, if it's God to tell him that she can still stand tall and proud and be the detective she was even before found out about divinity, or Lucifer, in an attempt to tell him that she's okay, that he doesn't need to worry about her, to focus on himself; maybe it was an attempt to tell him that she wants him, that she needs him back.

"I think you would have been insufferable with this case—a father punishing his son because he refused to play a part in his plans. I think you would have tried to make it about yourself but, in the end, I pulled a Lucifer and ended up making it about me, I guess."

Her gaze lands on the painting, the one he bought to help one of their old cases. She stands up and takes it down to reveal the safe.

Her breath is shaky and her hand trembles as she pushes in the numbers of her name, old number keypad style. 

"2-4-5-6-3," she breathes out and clicks on the enter button. The vault makes an unfastening sound and clicks open.

" _Chloe_ ," she breathes out. "Of course you use my name as your safe's passcode."

She is about to reach inside of the vault when her phones vibrates against her leg and rings loudly. She jumps slightly in surprise.

She fishes her phone out and she sees that it is Ella.

"What happene—"

"Santa Monica beach, Chlo. LAPD received a tip. A new body dropped. I'm on my way there."

* * *

By the time she reached the crime scene, there is already a number of bystanders and onlookers gawking at the scene.

The police tapes were already set and warded off some of the civilians looking in to see what had happened and who had died.

In the corner of her eyes, she sees a film crew, an independent news site that's been making strides for fast news delivery and unbiases reports. 

"An LA staple, this brutal murder of the owner of the city's most popular nightclub and renowned civilian consultant for the LAPD, Mr. Morningst—" the reporter is warded away by one of their officers but Chloe catches the name before her heart made a sudden a drop.

"No," she peers over the number of officers and forensic technicians casing the scene. She sees Ella, more tense and wound up as she takes pictures of the body and she starts to see the familiarities. "No, no— _Lucifer_!"

The camera crew follows her and she tries to get in to the, to bypass the tapes when a pair of hands take her by the shoulder. Chloe tries to twist out of the hold, but she fails. "No, that's my—that's my partner."

It's the lieutenant. 

"Detective Decker—Chloe, go home." But the words does not reach her easily. She fights against her commanding officer and walks in a daze towards the body.

Up close, there is no mistake. She sees his face and it is unnaturally still and pale. He is silent and unmoving and she thinks this is all wrong.

Lucifer is a being who buzzes with life, an almost tangible energy. He's so full of life that seeing him so still, so deathly pale is just wrong to see.

He is dressed in the suit she last saw him in, the one he wore when he managed to track down where Michael kept her. The pocket square is still in her bag and she has trouble breathing. Questions ran amok in her mind—was this Michael's doing, was his twin behind this or was it his father, God, dealing with his wayward son like Martin Atlee did with Damon?

"Detective Decker, go home. Rest assured, we'll make sure Lucifer gets the justice he deserves. He's one of us, and the LAPD takes care of their own." 

"That's my—" she chokes on the word, "—that's my partner, he can't be dead. It's Lucifer, he can't. . ."

Ella appears by her side. "Chloe, I promise you," their CSI has a stony glare, a rigid determination in the way her jaws are locked. It takes Chloe more than a moment to realize that she's shaking with a fury, "We'll find whoever did this."

* * *

In the end, Lt. Robles stopped trying to get her to come home, but it was clear that whatever the case was, she wasn't in on it.

She was too emotionally compromised by the victim on the case, the lieutenant said. That it was for the best that the LAPD assign someone else the case.

A part of her wants to fight her CO on it, but she doesn't really have the strength to do so, not yet, not when the reality isn't sinking in yet, not when everything she feels is all a fucking mess and she can't process it all.

Her phone vibrates—it's from Dan. 

' _Ella told me_.' 

Chloe wonders if she should write something back. But whatever she has in mind to say does not truly form when a new message pops up.

' _Trix and I are coming home first thing in the morning_.'

Then, finally.

' _I'll always be here for you. I know how much he meant to you, Chloe_.'

She bites the insides of her mouth as her stomach fell. Trixie.

' _Does Trix know?_ '

It takes Dan more than a moment to reply. 

' _I haven't told her yet_.'

She taps on the screen and thinks of her daughter. Trixie will be devastated. She loves Lucifer. When Lucifer left for Hell, Trixie tried her best not to get affected but she was. Those two months had been hard for her daughter.

She can't—Trixie needs to hear the news from her.

' _Do you want me to tell her?_ '

She taps her fingers across the screen, breathing in deeply, keeping a sense of composure.

' _No, I'll tell her, Dan. Just, make sure she doesn't find out from anybody else_.'

The moment the message was sent, Chloe pressed hard on the side of the phone until it shut down. 

She sat inside her car for what seems like the longest time. The light from the hospital bleeds inside the car and she lets herself cry—she needs to get it out as much as she can. 

Chloe won't cry in front of Lucifer. Not now, not when he needs her to be strong and help find his killer, no matter what the LAPD thinks. Chances are, the police department can't deal with the calibre of his murder. The police academy never did have anything or jurisdiction over celestial crimes and the murder of divine beings. 

She steels her nerves when she went out of her car.

The walk towards the morgue was chilly, a daze that she couldn't remember all too well. She bumped into a few people but they are not enough to lift this haze when she takes small steps in the unwinding halls of the hospital that blends together until it doesn't.

A sign hangs above the doors and a hitch forms in her throat when she pushes the doors open. 

Steel cabinets tower over her and some of the forensic technicians from the scene are packing up, preparing to leave. They all pass by her silently, if they looked at her, she wouldn't know—her eyes are glued to him.

Lucifer is lying down on the center steel table. He is still in his suit, but even with the articles of clothing, she could see his wounds. A mixture of a gasp and a shudder escapes her when she sees the damage—there are two stab wounds in his stomach, one in the chest, and shallow slit scross his throat.

The stomach wounds remind her of that blade Lucifer had been obsessed with back then—the one that mysteriously disappeared before any of the unis can bag it or Ella can photograph it.

But the one detail that catches her attention is a mark, a different wound. Just below his navel, peeking out of his shirt is a number. It is jagged and messy, but it looks like the killer added it post-mortem. 

_1_

Unable to help herself, Chloe lets her hand cup his cheek. He is hold and she couldn't help but think that it's wrong—Lucifer once said that angels had a celestial fire that burned within them, an energy that keeps them perpetually warm.

She's always felt that with him, that warm energy that he basically radiates. 

But as he lays still on the examination table, she feels nothing.

Chloe threads her fingers into his hair, his usually neat and kept hair, and she is struggling to keep her vow of staying strong because she needs to solve his murder, to find out who killed him, to tell—

She has to tell Amenadiel and Linda. They don't know, not yet. 

"I won't say goodbye," she says, voice hoarse, heavy with emotion and with a roughness that holds back a cry, "I'm not going to because right now you don't need that."

But she thinks of the last she saw him. They didn't get the chance to say goodbye. He was just gone, taken away.

"There's—" now that she's in front of him, seeing him like that, Chloe doesn't really know what to say. There's a moment of loss that goes straight to her words that she couldn't even begin to process what should be said. Whatever she was feeling was stuck in her chest and it kept building up, pounding against her chest until she slammed her hand against the edge of the table, "Damn it!"

She really didn't know why she was angry, who she was angry at. But it is a raw, consuming anger and it kept digging at her mind, at her soul.

Tears sting at her eyes, hot and almost sharp. She sharply sucks in a breath of air. She tries to say something, she really does, but every word she thinks of saying ends up being a series of mangled sounds, unable to make sense. 

Her mind flickers back to that hostage situation in Lux, the one where he was shot. Lucifer's decision to join the case was built on his need for closure and for the life of her, she couldn't truly figure out that closure.

For a moment, now when she never truly did have closure, she understands him.

There is this feeling of void inside of her, a hollow part is aching and yelling itself hoarse. It is a feeling that won't give her a moment's peace.

So, she doesn't say goodbye, she doesn't _want_ to say goodbye. Any words she could come up with sounds futile, redundant, lacking, and empty. So, instead, she settles for the pocket square she's kept.

A sad smile reaches her lips.

He always did pride himself for the way he took care of himself, the way he looked, the way he dressed. He's always impeccably dressed—fittingly, he always looks devilishly charming and handsome.

With shaking hands and ginger movements, Chloe fixed the pocket square into his jacket. It is crumpled, and she doesn't really know how it works out but somehow, with the pocket square back on him, there is a semblance of normalcy. She tries to imagine that he is sleeping, that he is going to wake up soon. 

She doesn't say goodbye, instead:

"I love you, Lucifer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, so apologies if it's a bit messy.
> 
> Tried to follow the Lucifer episode format for crime solving, first time doing that, really. 
> 
> Also, apologies for any inaccuracies. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated guys. 
> 
> It's going to be a medium-sized fic, and if you're worrying about Lucifer and Deckerstar. . .don't worry, there's something in the works here.


	3. "Death Kicked Me In The Arse"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's not—I don't think that man's human."
> 
> Chloe stepped forward. "Can you be more specific?"
> 
> His eyes are unfocused, unsteady with fear when they widened. Rick barely spoke up, his voice soft and the worlds trickle out of his mouth in a paralyzed fear—
> 
> "Yellow eyes. He has _yellow eyes_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags & Warnings:
> 
> Temporary Major Character Death  
> Angst  
> Amnesia

Chloe stands beside Lucifer's body in the morgue for what seems like the longest time before a hospital employee ushers her away and takes her outside.

She is left standing in an empty hallway with only the distant sound of chatter and footsteps to keep her company.

There is a small part of her that wants to go back inside, but there is also this fear, a tangible fear that makes going back inside so difficult partly because she never thought that the day would come where someone she knows is the body at that murder scene she's come upon. Of course, being a cop, she's always thought that it's a possibility, going so far as to know that it could happen to her, too. But seeing him like that, it hits her like a ton of bricks. 

Adrenaline is still coursing, pumping through her veins like a drug. It's almost dizzying, a different kind of electricity that begs her to keep standing. A buzzing rage that refuses to let her slow down or take a moment. But for all her restlessness, she just stands there, watching the doors, unable to decide if she wants to go back in or stay where she is. 

The logical part of her tells her, tries to coax her back home, maybe to the penthouse—she shuts down this idea; it's too soon, _too painful_ —and maybe eat some food, get some rest, try to clear her mind from all of this. She's only human, after all. 

Chloe sighs shakily into her hands, a slight weakness in her knees that forced her to take a step back and stumble into one of those metal benches. 

She wonders where he is right now—maybe he is in Hell because Lucifer once mentioned that he's banished from Heaven and when he dies, he can only really end up in one place; but then again, when God took him, they were in Heaven, maybe his exile had been lifted.

The logistics and schematics of where he is hurts her head. She is sleep deprived, physically and emotionally worn down. Her mind conjured up the image of her couch—the thought of sleeping in the bed only to wake up in cold sweat to scream for Lucifer after a night terror as she scrambles to find him does _not_ sound appealing—and while the idea of putting everything to sleep doesn't appeal very much to her, her body says otherwise.

The scent of coffee wafts over to her spot and her head whips automatically towards the direction of the vending machine at the far end of the hall. There is a doctor in scrubs waiting patiently by the cup slot before she took off, coffee in hand. 

Her somewhat fuzzy, hazy mind settles at the idea. She'd buy a cup first, go home later because it's not like she's going to be able to fall asleep easily any time soon and try to make sense of everything that's happened. 

Chloe makes her way towards the vending machine, her feet dragging against the linoleum floor of the hospital, bright and almost blindingly clean, she focuses her gaze on a small spot on the wall across until she reaches the machine.

The hospital's vending machine gives off this electric hum, enough to take her away from her thoughts but not enough to mask the distant chatter which is now audible, most of what she's hearing is from the nurses' station a few steps away from her. Chloe absentmindedly, almost sluggishly presses her order on the machine's dashboard and curses under her breath when her coffee takes too long.

The 10 dollar bill she fished out from her wallet slips out of her hand and she is slow to pick it up—

"Have we called up the medical examiner yet?" Chloe overhears the head nurse, perusing over a clipboard, jabbing her thumb in the direction of the morgue, "LAPD wanted to expedite the examination. The newcomer was a civilian consultant."

Chloe's blood froze.

Her body went rigid and her breath hitched in her throat in a strangled attempt to breathe—she forgot about that, of all the things, she forgot about that.

While Lucifer surely had enemies, they can't all be narrowed down to the fact that he deals in favors. An attack like this on a civilian consultant, especially just after a LAPD detective—his partner, no less—was kidnapped by an unidentified criminal two weeks ago, warranted an in-depth investigation from the LAPD to figure out if this was a personal grudge or a calculated, targeted move against the police force.

Her hands scrambled to her pocket, feeling out each side until she felt that tell-tale bulge of her phone.

Chloe ducked her head at every hallway she passed by and hurried her steps when she found an empty stairwell, the hospital's fire exit. 

Her hands are shaking when she scrolls through her contacts and nearly misses the name as her fingers tremble. Chloe pressed the phone against her ear. 

"Pick up, pick up," she mutters under her breath, a panic woven into her voice as she repeats the words like a mantra, like a prayer. "Please, Amenadiel, please _pick up_."

Chloe taps her foot impatiently on the ground, her teeth nearly chattering at her nerves in a rush. She almost loses hope when the line clicks, the ringing ending. She lets out a breath of air she didn't know she was holding in, her free hand gripping the railing of the stairs when her knees nearly gave in relief.

"Chloe?" asks Amenadiel, voice caked in worry and sleep, confusion reaching her. "What happened? Why are you—"

"Amenadiel, I need your help."

There is a silence, a pregnant pause that Chloe could only breathe heavily to. "What happened?"

"I need your help. I'm at a hospital—" Amenadiel made a noise of protest, a strangled sound that's between asking her if she's alright and why she's there in the first place, but she cuts him off before he could actually say anything, "—no, I'm fine, I am. I just need your help, ASAP."

"Alright, what do you need my help for?"

"I need to break out a body from the morgue."

* * *

As soon as the words left Chloe's lips, the line fell silent, so quiet to the point where she thinks he's hung up on her when—

The loose strands of her hair flew up to frame her face and she shudders at the rush of wind. " _Break a body out of the morgue_?" Chloe turns around at Amenadiel's incredulous tone, his confusion and chastising coming to a halt when he sees her face. "Chloe, please, tell me what happened."

She takes a deep breath, not for his sake but for hers. "Lucifer's dead."

Amenadiel stares at her, his blank expression slowly morphing back to confusion. " _No_ ," he says plainly, deadpanning it even, "Chloe, that's impossible. Lucifer's not dead." He rambles on, giving a dry huff, "I—Lucifer's not even here on Earth, Chloe, he's in Heaven. If he _were_ here, I'd know."

She sighs. Chloe looks up, boring into his eyes, conveying what she can without using the words as she silently tore down his disbelief.

"No," he says again, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes watering. "My father, he wouldn't allow it. He would never—" his wings unfurled from his back, a dim glow to the dark feather as they arched in the air.

One second, he is in front of her, and the next, he is gone. There is only wind, a rush of air that hits her in the face and she is alone once more. 

But her solitude did not last—Amenadiel returns, even more confused and coated in a thick layer of ash. It's not possible for angels to age, but the way his brows furrows, Chloe swears he's aged more than ten years in the span of ten seconds. "I don't understand," he hissed, "no one saw him Hell. I've checked every cell, his throne, every hall, every passage. He's not down there and if he's not, how can Luci be back? I would have known, if he was in danger, I would have. . ." then, he adds, brokenly, "If he was in danger, if I'd known, then I could have saved him."

His gaze is unfocused, a harkening reminder that she had been in his position just a few hours earlier, asking those questions, wondering if she could have made a difference if she knew.

"Take me to him."

* * *

Even as she watched from afar, Chloe knew the internal struggle that waged on inside Amenadiel.

He hangs, just by the doorframe of the morgue, his feet barely crossing the line. She could hear the strain in his breathing, the knotted hitch in each sharp breath of air, but she pushes the doors apart, revealing the insides of the morgue, stepping in and steeling herself.

A part of her is still holding on to a hope that maybe, just maybe, Amenadiel is right, that Lucifer couldn't possibly be dead—he is, after all, the King of Hell, the lightbringer, the morning star, an angel of God. For all his mysterious plans, their father wouldn't end it like this. She hoped, she made herself have faith. She wanted to believe.

But that faith shattered all the same when Amenadiel turned around, mouth gaping, tears streaking his face. He nods, wordlessly, and turns back to look at his brother.

"Did you—" he sputters, choking on his emotion-heavy words, "—did you find whoever killed him?"

The emotions she thought she had let our, the hurt and anguish of it all, came flooding right back that sent her reeling. "No," she breathes out, "we don't know. Not yet."

For a moment, they stood in a stunned, paralyzed silence, unable to say anything, to do anything—

There is a burst of wind seemingly from nowhere and her hair flies up, the strands that came loose from her tied back hair had framed her face and it all happened in a quick blur.

Standing in front her, Amenadiel's jaw is locked, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, though she suspected he looked beyond that. His wings were unfurled from his back, the dark feather giving off a celestial, divine glow, and arched into the air.

Just like that day at the precinct, Amenadiel is front of her one second and is gone completely the next. A metal cart creaks in protest as it moves across the room, disturbed from its peace. 

Everything looked the way it was, as if an angel hadn't been in here only to take off.

It is only seconds, maybe minutes later when a gust of wind blows against her face and a blinding light suddenly beams at her from nowhere. 

Chloe squints at the celestial light and her first instinct is to curse—her badge and gun had been taken away by the lieutenant before she decided to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Her hand hovered over her waist, forgetting for a second, that at the moment she is defenseless.

But her caution soon dies afterwards. The light subsides, and what is left is Amenadiel, his skin giving off a soft glow of light, but he is anything but angelic at the moment.

He is on his knees, his teeth gritted together. His face is red and eyes are bloodshot. But what caught Chloe's attention the most were his hands—the usually unmarred skin was jagged, red and blistered, and his knuckles were cracked.

He went back to the Gates of Heaven.

"Amenadiel, what did—are you okay?"

The exhaustion that seeped into her voice is not mirrored when Amenadiel lets out a gutteral roar. "I don't understand, Chloe!" his chest heaves in heavy breathing, "the Gates of Heaven, why are they locked! No one, none of my siblings are answering my prayers—how could they remain silent when Luci is gone?" he whispers the last part, broken and betrayed.

Amenadiel gingerly took Lucifer's hand into his own, unwilling to let him go just yet. "I just— _after Uri_ , how can. . .how can Father just stand by as his son is killed?!"

Chloe remained silent. As much as she wanted to join in on the hate party, her eyes flickered towards Lucifer. As much as he openly told people of his identity, this isn't how he wanted the world to know, for him to carted off as an oddity, to be studied and dissected as if that's all he is at the end of the day—Chloe shook her head at the thought of him being taken away. He will not be subjected to that indignity.

"Amenadiel, listen," she steps forward, body tense and rigid but shaking with a fury and determination to do right by Lucifer, "I know you're angry, hell, I am, too. But I need your help—the LAPD expedited any and all post-mortem medical examinations, which means we have to break him out of the hospital now."

Despite still hanging over Lucifer's side, hand still gripped in his, Amenadiel nods at her words. "You're right," he said soberly, a quiet and almost deathly calm, "this is not how the world finds out about divinity."

Chloe looks through the glass window panes of the morgue's door. She allows herself to loosen up when she finds no one there. "The coast is clear."

But Amenadiel is still in front of her, Lucifer as well. 

"But it doesn't make sense, Chloe." He mutters under his breath. "Luci is an angel—if he had died, I would have sensed it, Azrael would have sensed it. Angels can feel the presence of divinity, that's how Remy found Linda. If he was in Heaven when he was. . .killed, Father would have made sure he went back home, to the Silver City, or even to Hell. He's not anywhere, Chloe."

Her mouth ran dry. Lucifer once told her that when he dies, he could only go to two places and he was exiled from one of them. "Then, then where is he? Is there, like, some sort of special place for all angels when they die?"

"No," Amenadiel's brows are furrowed, knotted together in confusion. "Angels are beings of spirits, of light. We have souls. We can only truly go to two destinations if we're mortally injured. The only time that didn't happen was when Luci— _oh_ ," he looked back at his brother's body, his hands making quick work of the buttons of his shirt. His head hung low as Lucifer's midsection is exposed.

"Why?" it was hard, trying to stay strong, to not be affected by the wounds on Lucifer's body. 

"Chloe," he starts, cautiously, "has Lucifer ever told you about our brother, Uriel? Or perhaps our sister, Azrael?"

She tried to remember back as much as she can, but nothing came up to mind. "No, he's never talked much about your family."

"Alright," he conceded, his gaze flickering around the room until he looked at her face, focusing on a small scar above her right eyebrow. "Do you remember that car accident you were in? The one where the dog got out on the streets and you swerved to miss it, only to get hit?"

Subconsciously, Chloe reached out her hand and pressed it against the scar. "Yeah," she answers breathily, half-immersed in the memory of that day. It was the case of the cheating wife and manager, it was one of the moments where Lucifer and Dan bonded over a film series of all things, one of the moments where she actually feared for her life because despite planning for everything it could seemingly end with no rhyme or reason, it was also when Lucifer had been convinced that her accident was caused by their father, and now that she thought about it, it was also the day before he spiralled out of control, acting out when something had hurt him.

He stood in front of that doctor, taunting the sniper as he searched for him, asking him to kill him. 

"How about Malcolm? Do you remember the night Malcolm took your daughter?"

Chloe shuddered at the thought. She had never been more scared of anything. When Malcolm took Trixie, he was half-mad and delusional, any hopes of talking him down, of reasoning with him would have been pointless, useless. If he had snapped, she wouldn't have been able to stop Malcolm. 

"How could I forget?"

"Then you remember when my brother was shot?" she remembered from a distance, wondering what the hell Lucifer was doing, trying to do his mojo—back then she thought it was some charisma-driven psychological parlor trick—and it was almost working until she heard that gunshot. She remembered wanting to know what had happened, how he could survive Malcolm shooting him point blank in the stomach. 

In her search for the truth, Amenadiel dissuaded her from it. He had shot himself, too, claimed a bullet-proof vest and a blood bag, that it was all part of an image Lucifer tried to keep. "I do." 

"Good, then you should know that he actually died." Chloe sucked in a breath. For the longest time, after finding out the truth, she had known, in some way, known that there were bigger things at play when Lucifer got up, all fine after Malcolm had shot him. In a way, she always knew. "When Lucifer died, I felt his soul cross the boundaries of Earth and into Hell, Chloe. That's the thing about angels, we can find divinity because we're beings of the same kind. I felt him die. I felt his soul cross the boundaries of Earth and into Hell." He took a deep breath, "And for a while, I thought that was the end of it, the end of the story with Lucifer back in Hell where he will keep the demons in check as their king but that didn't happen—that's the first time he went to Hell for you, Chloe."

The words caught her off-guard but they sink in nonetheless.

' _Well, I did go to Hell and back for you—twice—but who's counting_?'

"When Lucifer was dying, he made a deal with our father, telling him that he would be the ideal son, the son Dad always wanted, that if there's a grand plan playing out, he will do his part. All of that in exchange for your safety." 

"He made a deal for me?"

Amenadiel nodded. "For you and Trixie. But when he died, Lucifer was shown an empty cell in Hell and he was brought back to life. We didn't know exactly what it meant because Father never really told us what he wanted, angels just do what we think he wants. That's when our mother, Goddess, entered. You may remember her as Charlotte Richards—she had died and her soul went to Hell and her body was occupied by our mother for a while—and we thought that Dad's mission for him was to return Mom to Hell, that his end of the bargain was Mom."

A soft sigh escaped her. He didn't send her back to Hell. She had seen in Lucifer and his mother a semblance of lightness. There's a part of Chloe that knows all Lucifer ever wanted was the love of his parents. "But like I said, Dad's plans, they're never clear or explicit. Mother hated humans ever since Father neglected our family. Luci and I thought that if we kept her on Earth with humans, it would be hell for her. Our brother Uriel had a different view on Lucifer's deal with Dad, or more importantly, what wasn't fulfilled." His eyes droop low, a sheen to them and for a moment, Chloe feels like she's intruding. "That car accident, Chloe, that was no accident. There truly was a cosmic force targeting you. It was my younger brother, Uriel."

Questions ran amok in her mind. She hadn't done anything to upset the balance of universe. At least, back then, she didn't. Why would an angel of God target her?

"Uriel thought he knew what Father wanted. He gave Luci an ultimatum, though—give up Mom or he'll finish what should have happened that night with Malcolm." Her gave her a pointed look and all air from her lungs had been sucked out.

It was a dizzying moment, finding out you're supposed to be dead only to find that you're not because someone made a deal on your behalf. 

"While angels aren't allowed to kill humans, Uriel has a gift—as all angels do—and my younger brother has the unique ability to see patterns, to manipulate them. When Lucifer didn't give up Mom, he gave a warning."

Realization sunk in on her. "The car accident."

"Not just that—that human movie star who tried to kill his wife and manager. That was orchestrated by my brother to convince Lucifer to give up Mom."

"Why didn't he?" Chloe blurted out, unable to stop herself until she saw that grim look on Amenadiel's face. "She's his mother, maybe she could have talked some sense into your brother. It's not like he'll hurt her, right?"

But the look on his face leaves a churning in her stomach, a sinking that their brother would have.

"That's the thing—Uriel was under the belief that Mom is out to get Father, to start another rebellion. He wasn't there to return our mother to Hell, he was there to destroy her."

"How?" if there was anything she's learned from all the masses she went to when she was still married to Dan to please her then in-laws, is that God is all powerful, all knowing, and almighty. If Goddess is anything like that, how could her child just hurt her like that.

"Uriel had my sister's blade. Azrael is better recognized by her job, the reaper of souls."

"The Angel of Death."

"Exactly. And because she has a responsibility like that, Father crafted her a weapon, her blade. Azrael's Blade, the only weapon on Earth that can obliterate souls. When killed using the blade, your soul won't go to Heaven or Hell, it's erased out of existence." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "That night, when Lucifer told Uriel to go home, to go back to the Silver City, he was gave Luci a choice—turn Mother in or he will start a series of events that will lead to your inevitable death."

Chloe thought back to the events of the murder of Wesley Cabot. After that case, he went into a depression, a spiral of anger and hurt that she couldn't understand no matter how hard she tried or begged him to let her in. But she didn't die after that, nor did Charlotte Richards disappear.

But Lucifer showed up like he had done the most despicable crime on earth. Like he was a monster worthy of punishment—

"Lucifer killed your brother, didn't he?"

She didn't want to answer, a part of her wanted to keep that bliss of ignorance but the signs were already glaring at her. "Lucifer was tormented. Of all the things he is since the beginning of time, my brother is no killer, no murderer. But there was no choice in the matter. Uri would have killed mother, and countless others if he had gone through with his pattern. Our brother Uriel was the first ever being he's killed and it haunts him, to this day. He was so broken—"

"That he tried to kill himself." She finished for him with a heavy feeling. He went to hospital knowing the sniper was there, knowing she was there to make him vulnerable and hence killable. He really was ready to die out of guilt, yearning for his punishment.

She clears her throat. "So, he was killed by this blade?"

"It looks that way, it's the only real possible explanation, even, but it's impossible. When Lucifer confronted our mother, when you were trying to get a confession out of her at that pier—"

"And then all of a sudden he was on the beach, Charlotte Richards was unconscious." She focused her gaze at him. "You stopped time, didn't you?"

"I did. And that bought Luci enough time to use Azrael's Blade—which we found out was actually the Flaming Sword—and create a universe for Mom, one without Father, one where she could truly move on. There is no way to get to that universe because Flaming Sword is dismantled into three separate pieces, two of which are with Mom and. . ."

He trailed off, eyes wide, and mouth gaping. "Amenadiel?"

"I have to go." He says quickly.

"No!" she protests. "We have to—we need to take him away."

"Chloe, if we don't act fast, his killer may get away. I think I know where the killer went before they killed Lucifer." He sets his jaw defiantly, "I need to know."

"Fine." She relents, huffing out a breath of air.

Amenadiel's wings sprouting out and she did not even have a moment to react when the world around her warps around in a blur. It a different kind of dizzying, a nauseating kind when her feet manage to find grounding beneath her.

"Where are we?" Chloe looks around. There are light posts scattered along the pathways, but what strikes her the lost are candles and an ocean of upright markers—

"I need to find someone." Amenadiel says hastily, walking by her. He does not bother to look at the grave markers. His steps are quick and decisive, but there is also something different to his posture. It's different from the vulnerability and hurt when he was at the morgue, the anger he felt from his father felt more like betrayal compared to this. 

This was a righteous fury.

* * *

They go around the cemetery until the smell of freshly dug up soil hits her square in the senses, making her stop whereas Amenadiel continued on.

The plot they are searching for is in the far end of the cemetery, a corner plot. 

Dim as the light is, she catches a trail of muddy footprints leading away from the now empty six-foot hole, strikingly empty. The coffin was tossed out, propped up and wide open. Chloe gagged at the scent of the rotting body, but mostly at the sight that was in front of her. Amenadiel's anger is much more contained, though; his hand is on the gravestone, his grip far too strong that he had chipped off the edge of the marker. 

"What happened here?"

She recognizes the name on the grave's tombstone. Caleb Mayfield, the student from Callaway Prep High School. He was a suspect for the murder of a faculty adviser at the school but it turns he was being framed. He had been murdered, just as his name was cleared of any wrong doing just because he was trying to break free from a local gang, he wanted out.

From what she understood, Caleb wanted Lucifer to buy Tahir, a drug lord who runs a small time operation expanding to teenagers, off his back, he needed a favor but Amenadiel took him under his (figurative) wing. Watching Amenadiel like that, when he saw Caleb's shot down body on the ground, she felt for him. He considered Caleb like a son, and to see him gunned like that, like an animal, she knows that torn apart doesn't even begin to cover what he felt.

And now, his grave is disrespected, upturned and exhumed without consideration or dignity.

"When Caleb died," Amenadiel cuts the silence with a quiet fury in his voice, still hiding his face from her, his back turned to her, "I went to see his body at the morgue. I gave him my necklace, Chloe."

He grasped the space by his chest. "I told you that the Flaming Sword—the most powerful weapon on this Earth that can cut even through the universe itself—is dismantled into three distinct pieces." He looked down at the grave, then, flittingly, at Caleb's body. "I gave my necklace, the third and final piece, to Caleb."

Chloe nods, her smarts catching up to her. "Whoever has your necklace is the killer."

* * *

The caretaker's cabin is by the rear exit of the cemetery. 

She is walking ahead of Amenadiel. The porch's wooden floorboard creaks under the pressure of her weight, protesting loudly, but she ignores each sound. She raised her fist to knock when the sound of an exploding engine reaches her ears and she registers that it's not a faulty engine but a gun. She barely has time to react, to brace herself for whatever hits her but it does not come to her at all.

One second she is in front of the door when, the next, she opens her eyes and the door is already opened and the blast just barely missing Amenadiel by a hair's width but he is fine nonetheless.

"Fuck!" a man yells from inside, making a run for it but Amenadiel is faster—he takes him by his shoulder and presses down, the man falling down to a nearby chair.

"Sit," the angel commands.

"Nuh-uh," the caretaker shakes his head and makes a move for the shotgun, inserting the barrel into his mouth and preparing to pull the trigger when Amenadiel bends the gun, breaking it and rendering it useless. "Fine, just kill me!" the caretaker cries out, begging them.

He raises his hands in the air, shivering in fear. "We're not going to hurt you," he softened, "we're going to ask you some questions, we just need answers."

"I don't know anything just—just stay away from me, please."

Chloe steps around the mess of empty glass bottles and boxes of cheap pizza. The door wasn't locked before, she glances at the door knob and purses her lips—it's broken.

A fight broke out here, but she doesn't have an idea how long ago.

An ID hangs neatly off the window's handle. "Rick Danton?" she reads aloud. "Relax. I'm LAPD."

"Oh, thank God." The caretaker looks skeptical. "Where's your badge?" 

"Right now, I don't have it. But you have my word that no one is going to hurt you—" she winces, grimacing deeply at the dark blue bruise that is forming on the man's face, "—who hurt you?"

"I ain't talking!" he sputters out, "That _freak_ is. . .his eyes, oh, God, he could come back and I don't want any part of this." He cradled himself, whimpering. "I want this to end. I just want it to end."

"Come back?" Amenadiel echoed. "Who came before us?"

"I don't know, he never said his—he didn't say his name."

"Was he finding a grave? Caleb Mayfield—was he looking for Caleb Mayfield's grave?"

"The corner plot? Yeah, he barged in here, looking for that kid's grave. I tried to stop him, I even shot him but he walked away like it was nothing. Followed him to this grave but when he pushed me back, I flew back three feet away and when I looked up, when I saw his face. . ."

"How long?" Amenadiel pressed. "When did come for the grave?"

"I don't know, four hours ago, I think. Maybe five or six?" Chloe nods when Amenadiel gave her a look. It matches the timetable of Lucifer's murder.

"Can you describe him for us?"

Rick looked ashen, like all color from his face had been drained. He looked at her, dead in the eyes and gravely serious. "He's not—I don't think that man's human."

Chloe stepped forward. "Can you be more specific?"

His eyes are unfocused, unsteady with fear when they widened. Rick barely spoke up, his voice soft and the worlds trickle out of his mouth in a paralyzed fear—

"Yellow eyes. He has _yellow eyes_."

* * *

Amenadiel storms out of the cabin as she stays behind and uses the landline inside to call for an ambulance for the caretaker who is nursing not just a concussion but a broken leg when he limped back to the cabin to stay safe after the attacker dug up the grave.

She found Amenadiel back at Caleb's grave, his brows scrunched up. 

"I placed an anonymous call for the LAPD. A bunch of officers are coming, and an ambulance for Rick Danton." But he remains silent, his fingers are balled into a fist, "you know him, don't you? The man the caretaker saw, the one with yellow eyes."

Amenadiel sighs. "I. . .I have an idea who it is, I'm not sure, but if it _is_ him, with the blade somehow taken from Mother's universe along with my necklace, then I have to find him, Chloe. The universe is in grave danger if Azrael's Blade is somehow back on Earth and completed." He gives her a determined look, a look that she sees in Lucifer, too.

" _I_ have to find him, Chloe. No one else." The message behind it is clear—finding Lucifer's murderer isn't something regular law enforcement can handle, even if the LAPD somehow manages to connect the murder to him, to yellow eyes. The silent edge to his voice had her nodding, a silent agreement between them. 

Only Amenadiel would seek out yellow eyes, not even her or Linda. Not even Dan. And when the time comes, when the LAPD finds something regarding his case, Chloe will have to bury the lead, redirect them to a dead end. She hates that she will be powerless to bring Lucifer's killer to justice, but if this yellow eyes managed to kill the Devil, she really couldn't stand a chance. 

As much as she hated to stand back, to stay in the sidelines, it's what she had to do. 

"Alright." She takes a step back when Amenadiel unfurls his wings.

"Chloe," as if sensing the turmoil raging inside of her, he gives her a solemn look, "we will get justice for Lucifer."

She nods tightly, her hand flying to her necklace, the bullet that she had shot Lucifer with, "I know." She means it because deep down inside, she doesn't know what she'll do if she couldn't, if she fails.

He held out his hand, a somber look on both their faces. "Come. Let's give my brother the burial he deserves."

* * *

The hospital, when they come back, is much more hectic then when she last saw it.

In the parking lot alone, she sees numerous familiar police cruisers and cars that she knew, immediately, something was wrong.

Uniformed officers, from where Amenadiel landed, are visible as they entered in the hospital. She even sees Lt. Robles walking in, talking to a doctor at the entrance of the hospital and rushing inside.

Her stomach fell.

_They're too late._

She ran as fast as she could, not even bothering to wait for Amenadiel or to listen to his protests. She passes by some familiar faces, some of them trying to flag her down.

Chloe races down to the morgue, wishing now more than ever she still had her gun. As if time slowed down around her, she could feel each and every beat of her heart, the blood coursing through her veins and every short, sharp, and deep she took when she made that final turn, pushing the doors wide open as she found that hallway, that old deserted hallway where the morgue is.

Except now, it is not deserted—

" _Decker_!"

The sound of everything around her comes rushing back and seemingly everything is in tune—the chatter of the hospital exploded everywhere and she is at a loss for a moment when thin arms snake around her waist and pulled her in for a. . . _hug_?

Chloe blinks in surprise when she found Ella giving her the tightest embrace ever. " _Chica_!" she exclaims, breaking apart for a short moment before holding her tight once more, "What's the deal, Decker, why weren't you answering your phone?!"

This time, she breaks away from the embrace and Ella allows her, watching expectantly as she pulled out her phone and booted it up. While the screen started up, she looked around, confused at how a hospital, empty and lifeless just a few hours ago, is now bursting with people.

"What happened?"

Ella grinned. "You won't believe it!" the CSI says with a barely contained excitement. She grips her necklace, a cross, and takes her in for another hug. "Oh, Chlo, it's a miracle, he's okay!"

The words rush back to her.

She checks her inbox, filled with a range of unread messages and missed phone calls. Some are from Linda, three calls and two texts from the station chief, even Lt. Robles sent three messages and a phone call, and Ella, topping it all off with a chain of 20 messages and 12 missed calls.

She taps on one of her messages.

' _Chloe, you won't believe it. Lucifer's alive, Decker. Girl, he's alive. He's okay!_ '

 _He's okay_.

"What?" her heart skips a beat, "Lucifer—Lucifer, he's okay?"

Ella nearly jumps up and down in her spot and gave a barely contained squeal of excitement. "Yeah, uh, the medical examiner came in to perform the autopsy and he saw like, that's a _lot of blood_ and he was _still_ bleeding out. At first the dude said maybe livor mortis hadn't set in but when he went in and checked—boom! He found a pulse!"

Chloe leans back and her hand finds the wall, needing support. She tries to process it all and the tightness in her chest is slowly beginning to dissipate.

_He's alive!_

". . .I mean, I don't know how we missed it—I mean the ME said it was weak, like super weak, like he nearly missed it himself. But right now, I really don't care. Luce is okay! I'm going to give hell for scaring me like that, but, Chlo, he's alive!" She rambles and Chloe is still breathing heavily, her mind and her thoughts are in a mess and she doesn't quite know what to feel yet but if there is one thing she is sure of, one thing that makes sense to her right now is Lucifer.

"Where is he?"

She cuts off Ella, a bit pointed and snappish, but if she had a tone to her voice, her friend let it slide off with another Ella Lopez™ smile. She points to a corridor that leads off to a suite complex of the hospital, away from surgery rooms. "Lt. Robles is talking to the doctor. Said that Luce is weak, I mean who wouldn't be after stab wounds to the stomach and the chest and a slit throat, but the docs said that he looks like his prognosis looks great. He's out of the woods, Chlo!" Ella gives a grateful smile and aims it at the ceiling. "Shouldn't have doubted you, big guy. Anyways, Lucifer's being transferred to a suite I think. He's going to be kept here overnight for some tests, you know, observation."

Chloe lets out a shaky breath. "Do you know, do you know what room he's in right now?"

Ella's smile faltered. "I, uh, I don't—" 

A uniformed officer tapped her on the shoulder. "Detective Decker!" it was Officer Cucuzza, from Evidence. "Your partner's in room 312. Lieutenant's posted a few officer's outside his door, can't miss it. Hospital said that visiting hour's over but I think they can make an exception for you so you guys could talk." Beside her, Ella gave a giggle and a wide grin shot at her direction. 

Chloe did a double take. "Talk?" she looked between Ella and Cucuzza. "You mean, he's awake?"

"Yeah, he's already driving the nurses crazy and up the wall, complaining about they won't give him some cool ranch puffs." Chloe could not help the watery smile as she took Cucuzza in for a short embrace before taking off in the opposite direction.

She is still shaking with a buzz in a way not even Lux's top shelf alcohol could give. 

Chloe stops by a restroom first. One look at the mirror had her stopping in her tracks. She looks like a mess, frankly. The usually immaculate hair, tied back and neat, is in disarray. She takes a moment to wash her hands, digging under her nails, breathing in the scent of the anti-bacterial soap. 

She rubs the soap against her hand until a film of white foam coats her fingers to the joint of her wrist. The water is mercifully cool and she watches in an automated awareness of how it washes away the suds. For the first time in the night, she felt the tightness in her chest fade. 

Chloe pulls on her hair tie, letting her hair fall flat.

She takes a long look at the mirror before leaning down into the sink and splashing her face with water, cleaning off grimes and dirt, willing herself awake if this is some sort of a twisted nightmare that gives her hope only to tear it away. But nothing changes. Her face is cool against the air conditioning of the hospital. He's still alive. 

Chloe dries her hands quickly with paper towels and wipes her face clear of water. The streaks of tears are no longer visible on her face, but her eyelids are puffy from the crying earlier, but her eyes are not as bloodshot as she expected them to be. 

The restroom door creaks open when she steps out and glances at a nearby wall. The room directory, mapping out the suites on this floor. 

She is about to make a turn when she sees, in the corner of her eyes, a vending machine. She doesn't know why exactly, but she went anyways and punches in the code and feeds the machine a dollar.

The sound of the food wrappers hits the ground and she leans down to pick it up.

Cool ranch puff.

* * *

Cacuzza is right—she couldn't miss Lucifer's room, not even if she tried.

Two officers are posted outside his door and gave her a warm nod before letting her in.

The suite is everything she'd expect Lucifer would get if he was ever hospitalized—a private room with his own bath, a microwave fixed in the corner and a small fridge, a nice spacious sitting area, a television mounted on the wall in front of the bed.

But really, mostly, she's focused on one thing. . .or one person.

Lucifer is propped up by what seems like a mountain of pillows. She couldn't imagine that to be comfortable, but he has a small smile, sinking into the bed that she couldn't help but smile.

He's back.

And finally, there's no Michael, potentially no God to make their already complicated lives much more complex. He's home, in LA, and back with her.

Chloe takes a real moment, a longer time to just take him in, the sight of him well and alive. First, she looks at his chest, relishing in the steady rise and fall, promising never to take it for granted. Another difference from when he was still inside the morgue was his facial complexion—she remembered his face being so pale, his lips already turning blue. She thinks it is an image that will haunt her for the rest of her life, but seeing him like this, with color slowly but surely going back to him, she can let herself relax a bit more.

She thinks back to all those times she had been injured on the job, when she's been shot at or when she had been poisoned, all those times their places had been reversed—it was always her, on that hospital bed, and always him lurking around, hanging by the door.

She understands him now, what he said about how much he'd rather he gets hurt instead than her. She understand it now because she feels exactly the way he did—immortal or not, being invulnerable aside, being a celestial angel doesn't really matter. She wants to protect him. A part of her will think it's funny, she's sure, of how the two of them somehow loses all sense of self preservation when the idea of the other one is in danger.

Chloe leans back on the wall. She is really is so lucky to have fallen in love with Lucifer, crazy as life may be, devil and all, angel or not, forever or the shortest, briefest moment, she couldn't imagine falling for another person, she couldn't imagine loving anyone else but him.

She thinks back to that moment she realized, truly realized she loved him—it was that time when they were on this crazy rat race to get that necklace, when she first met Eve, when the thought of not having him in her life scared her more than it ever should. Realizing that she could lose him, it was a far greater, paralyzing fear that she couldn't imagine. 

But that's the thing about love, she thinks. It's not made to be rational or explainable or quantifiable in words or numbers or reason. It's beyond logic.

She never once thought, when she was starring in Hot Tub High School all those years ago that she'd become a detective and a mother, let alone in love with the Devil himself.

Lucifer has fallen asleep. Even though she was pretty much looking forward to talk to him, she's content watching him like this. After everything he's been through, an undisturbed night of rest is something he deserves.

A seat is already propped by the side of the bed and she quietly makes her way towards the bed. She takes her hand. There is an IV hooked up to him and she carefully avoids the needle as she rubs soothing patterns on the back of his hand, on the tip of his fingers. 

Chloe nearly moaned at the presence of that celestial heat he exudes. He really is alive and back home with her—

 _Amenadiel_!

Amenadiel doesn't know that Lucifer's alive. Chloe quietly slips out of the chair and tries her best not to make a sound, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her phone when a groan sounds behind her.

She whips around only to see Lucifer blinking awake, a bit disoriented, but steadily growing more aware.

Phone forgotten in her palm, she crosses the room once more. "Hey," she says softly, smiling when he focuses on her, "how're you feeling?"

Lucifer grimaced, looking at his bandaged and stitched stomach wounds, "Like I have a bad stomach ache after death kicked me in the arse," his hands lands on one of the stitches and his face contorts in pain, "Son of a bitch, it really hurts!"

"Want me to go get a nurse?"

He frowns, for a moment, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion but it does not last until his gaze lands on her lap. "Ah, well done! Nurses here have been stingy with their nourishment and I've been thoroughly denied my snacks." He reaches out his hand expectantly and Chloe sighed.

Well, back then when he was shot in the stomach and Lux was held in siege, Lucifer did have his IV filled with an amber-colored alcohol, probably top-shelf whiskey from his flask. Cool ranch puffs wouldn't really do any harm.

The sound of metallic foil crinkling open fills the room and she watches as Lucifer indulges with his snack, practically inhaling the packet of food in seconds when he catches her looking. "I'm sorry," he says, tipping the packet over, empty already, "did you want one?"

"No, no," she says with a smile, "I'm fine."

Lucifer frowns at her. "Then why on earth are you looking at me like that?"

Chloe gave a shaky breath. "It's just been really, really rough night, Lucifer," she breathes out taking his hand into hers only, when she did, he squirmed uncomfortably and shifted his arm, pulling away.

"Oh, shoot," she glances at the back of his hand, "did I hurt you?"

" _Hurt me_?" he parrots incredulously, looking at her as if she had burned him, like her touch was fire and his skin was blistered and red from when she reached out to him.

The machines beside him are making loud, angry noises.

"Hey, calm down, you're alright. Lucife—" she glanced at the door to see if anybody saw his flare-up, thankfully, the officers didn't notice.

" _Alright_?! I've got bloody holes all over my body! Bloody bollocks, everything's _not_ fine and dandy, now is it?" he looks upset but above all that, he looks scared, as his face morphs back to normal from his Devil face. "And tell me, why is it that everybody keeps calling me the _bloody devil_?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet our (not so) big bad, yellow-eyes. 
> 
> Do not doubt or fret, this will be Deckerstar, I swear upon my eternal soul. They're just going to take a lot falls and stumbles but they'll get there.
> 
> Still don't know how long this is going to take, but hope you'll join in on the ride. See you for the next chapter!


	4. "Turns Out I Didn't Dream It All Up"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Amenadiel!" Linda calls out. "What is going on?"
> 
> "Lucifer doesn't have amnesia!" he breathes out before his face went blank and incredibly still. "Something happened in the Silver City, and I don't know what lead to this but someone stole Luci's memories."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Tags & Warnings:
> 
> Amnesia  
> Edited/Re-published (September 23, 2020)

"Not that I'm overly fond of that state penitentiary you call a hospital, or that I'm not thankful for your prison bust which, I must say detective, _well done_ ," Lucifer gave the penthouse a once-over, pleased at the overall change of scenery, "but why am I here?"

Each passing day at the hospital made it increasingly clear that Lucifer isn't human, that he's much more. 

The little outburst that night in the hospital when his hand turned red and blistered had only cemented the thought to Chloe—if he stayed in the hospital, it would be a matter of time before someone else found out about his devil-ness.

The slit across his throat is barely visible on the third day and by the first week rolled out the stab wounds in both his chest and stomach are completely gone—his skin is unmarred, unscarred, and completely blemish-free as if he wasn't stabbed by a celestial blade, potentially the weapon of the angel of death back from a separate universe. 

Chloe sighed—celestials and universe-slicing weapons are a part of her world now.

But the issue remains—it is a part of her world, not the rest of humanity's just yet. She needed to take him away before someone realizes just how impossible it is for a man more than six hours dead with multiple stab wounds ended up living and good as new as if nothing had happened to him in a two weeks' of time.

His fast healing and recovery is already a hot topic aling the nurses' wards across each floor and the hospital cafeteria. It's only really just a matter of time before someone tries to make sense of why Lucifer heals too fast only to realize that it doesn't make sense and that only reasonable explanation is that he is not human.

Thankfully, Linda had been a God-sent and Lucifer's amnesia turned out to be a blessing in disguise—with the LAPD insistent on monitoring him, therapy and memory recovery had been top priority for the police department as they worked on their current theory that the attack on their civilian consultant had been a premeditated and calculated assault on the police force, starting with her own kidnapping.

It wasn't, of course, but it helped smoothed out the situation, and for now, she understood the situation for what it was—a gift horse.

The best lies are the ones hidden in the truth. Lucifer's amnesia, despite its seemingly celestial origin, had been played off as just that: retrograde amnesia and Linda had assessed that an immersion in a familiar environment would not only lessen the stress levels of a patient, but help jog up memory recovery.

Officially assigned as Lucifer's lead protective detail, Chloe, along with Amenadiel and Linda, managed to check him out of the hospital barely in the nick of time just as a few doctors were already suspicious of his accelerated healing and had been wondering if Lucifer was open to undergoing additional tests.

Which landed them at the penthouse, the secure, familiar environment to help aid Lucifer's recovery.

Lucifer strode in once the elevator doors opened as if he never forgot. He is dressed smartly and sharply in one of his Armani suits, immaculate and to the point. Even his mannerism is exactly the same which makes it confusing and difficult because there are times where she feels as if he knows, that he remembers, and yet he doesn't.

"So, detective, doctor," he passed a look between the both of them before settling an unsure gaze at Amenadiel, "Mr. _Tall-dark-and-annoyed-at-me_ , who claims to be my brother—"

Amenadiel groans. "Luci, for the last time, I _am_ your brother," he says, exasperated. 

"Or so he says," Lucifer grumbles mumbles under his breath with that usual air of charisma and confidence as he teases Amenadiel before the bar catches his eyes. Lucifer clasps his hand together, his eyes holding an almost a conspiratorial grin as he pours himself a drink. "Now, explain," he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, "why am I here?"

Linda steps forward, gesturing around the penthouse. "Lucifer, we brought you here so that you could be exposed to external stimuli, familiar stimuli that can jog up your memory. This is your home, your very own palace in the skyline of LA."

He empties the glass with a flourish, chuckling deeply but emptily as he looks around. "I'm afraid nothing quite jogs up the memory, doctor." 

Unfazed, Linda steps forward with a notepad in one hand and her phone in the other. "Alright, then how about what you do, remember?"

He scoffs, the tip of his eyebrow twitching. Lucifer is still smiling charismatically and charmingly, but there is a tightness to his lips, a knot to his shoulders. "Like I said, doctor, I don't remember anything. Bloody amnesia, remember?" he says, a bit snappish and Linda smiles at the reaction.

"Do you know what I think, Lucifer?"

He went to the bar to pour himself another glass, this time filling it all the way. He gave her a short huff. "Well, tell me, doctor, it's what I'm bloody paying you for, after all!"

She presses further, pulling up something on her phone and deposits it in his palm. "I think you're scared, Lucifer." He stares at the phone, his lips parted and expression unreadable. "I think you do remember something, deep down inside, and you're shoving it down because you're afraid you'll realize it's real."

"No," he hisses, drinking the whisket in one gulp before tipping the bottle back to the glass but Linda stops him, "No—"

"Linda," Amenadiel approaches cautiously, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, "what are you showing him."

Chloe leans in forward only to. . .hear the sound of waves pulling in and out.

She goes forward and watches as Linda takes back her phone and places it on a counter. It's a video taken on the same spot where Lucifer was found by the police. The beach is seen in the background, but the microphone catches each and every hiss of the water as it crashes into the beach and is pulled back in by the tides.

"You remember something from the beach, Lucifer, don't you?"

Lucifer leans against the bar counter, empty glass clutched in his hand. "I don't—" he struggles over his words, mouth hanging ajar and he looks genuinely pained that Chloe wondered if they had pushed too far when he broke the silence, "—I remember the sand, falling to my knees," then his hands slowly rose to his midsection and to his chest, "I remember bleeding," he says that part slowly and in a low whisper, as if he remembers each excruiciating detail, as if he's never felt any pain like that before.

Amenadiel spoke up. "The beach?" 

"Yes, that dreadful cesspool of all marine life," Lucifer grumbles under his breath, his gaze far and calculating.

But the off-putring comment doesn't faze Amenadiel at all. If anything, he looks much more deteemined. "I have to go."

"Why?" she followed him into the doors of the elevator, quickly glancing at the frosty atmosphere between Linda and Lucifer, before giving him an expectant look.

"It's—" he sighs and crosses his arms, folding them over his chest, "—when Lucifer escaped Hell and into Earth, he always woke up on the beach, that same beach! Maybe there's something there, something that might be seen in the eyes of an angel."

Lucifer speaks up from across the room. "You might want to take her, _brother_." He glares, an edge to his voice.

"Lucifer, as your therapist, I'm have to tell you that this is progress." She insists, finishing what she was writing on her notepad, "Making progress isn't always the easiest course of action, but as your therapist, it's my duty to guide you to understand your feelings to make proper realizations."

Lucifer, however, was set on sensing Linda away. "And as a patient, I believe I have to stay away from stressful activities, yes? So," he gave a tight smile towards Amenadiel and the elevator, "off you go."

Linda lets out a resigned sigh, taking out a post-it from her purse and scribbled down in a neat and cursive script a set of her contact numbers. "When you need to talk, Lucifer," she smiles then, sadly, "you know how to reach me."

The doors close shut and Lucifer closes his eyes, standing just over the bar with a shaky breath leaving his lips. He shudders, looking torn between where he stood and at the elevator, his hands by his side but they hovered away, as if wanting to reach out for something.

Instead, he pulls out the piano stool and plops down, unceremoniously, but elegantly in a way that can only be described as Lucifer.

"You know," she begins softly, "Linda was only trying to help. She wants the best for you, Lucifer, she's your friend," she wouldn't admit it out loud, but Chloe knew that the resigned look on Linda's face held a little something more than defeat—hurt.

And she sees something in Lucifer, too, something she wouldn't see as clearly or as evidently before. He looks guilty, that he regrets letting Linda leave feeling like that, letting her leave believing she had failed.

"I know," he whispers, somewhat dejectedly. "And I'll apologize—truly, I will, detective," he assures her but he gives this almost longing look, "but I feel great," he forces a smile to his face, "I really do, and when she made me realize that I am terrified," he gave her a sheepish smile and a half-shrug, "that and it may be my fault."

Chloe surges forward before she could think about it. "No," she says immediately, giving a warm smile, conveying what she felt for him as much as she can with the hope that he understood, "Lucifer, what happened there, it wasn't your fault. You were a victim of a brutal attack, it's not your fault."

He gave tilted his head just a fraction to the side. "Well, detective, it just seems to me as if everything I do isn't good enough—here you are, doing your level best to protect me and yet I can't contribute to the case, and the good doctor, she's been so patient, working with me for days on end and nothing. . .I'm just tired of disappointing everyone around me as if I'm some poison."

Chloe couldn't really even begin to think how to respond to that. For years, she'd been trying to understand Lucifer and his insecurities but she couldn't really see into him, she couldn't really break down his walls even if he wanted her to. 

His (figurative) demons kept him closed off, even more so when she learned who he really is. 

But the way he trusts her, a person, in his mind right now, that he doesn't truly know. He opened up to her.

"You're not poison." She says softly, placing her hand on top of his and he smiled, in return. "You're annoying, yes, insufferable, too."

"I don't see how this is going to help me feel better, detective," Lucifer called out, but even he couldn't keep the smile from leaking into his voice, leaning in, taking in every word she said.

"Shush," she mocks chastising, "now, where was I—oh, yeah—you could be the most difficult person to work with but I also couldn't imagine having any other partner with me, Lucifer." 

They hang off on that last part. There is a pull between them that felt static, almost tangible between them that. He kept looking at her for what seemed like the longest time. 

He stood up from where he sat on the stool, and she took what seemed like the smallest steps towards him, and it feels as though they almost in sync, back to the time when they finally made sense of what they felt for one another and stopped letting fears or doubts get in the way and she swears she sees a light of recognition in his eyes—

They jarred back to sense of reality, a feeling of coolness and heat rushing to them when his hands brushed against the keys of the piano and snaps them out of it. 

And the day finally came—the Devil blushed.

He glares at the piano, the dissonant notes still echoing in the room. "So," he clears his throat, twisting around so he could face the piano keys much comfortably, "this _Lucifer Morningstar_ business, is it because I'm an actor, is it my stage name or. . . ?"

He trails off and she chuckles. 

"What?"

"Nothing," she says too quickly and he wiggled her eyebrows as if to say: spill the beans.

"No, there's a story behind this," he crosses his legs, "and the _Devil_ ," the word sounds unfamiliar in his mouth and yet it sounds right and familiar, "wants to know."

"Alright, do you remember how I said you and I started working with each other because of one case, your friend?"

"You've mentioned it, I think."

She smiles. "I was the detective on the case and you were our only witness. We were actually just downstairs, you know? Down at the bar? And you were playing the piano. I asked you for your name—"

" _Lucifer Morningstar_ ," they both said in unison.

"Exactly," she draws out a sigh, thinking back to the way things were back then, "and I asked you if you were an actor, if it was a stage name."

He arches an eyebrow, "And my answer was?"

"To quote you?" she stepped around the stool and sat down on the space he pats beside him. "God-given, I'm afraid."

"I see we've come in full circles," Lucifer stretches his hands over the keys, just hovering above the notes. His jaws locked, once in a few second and kept closing his fingers into a fist and shaking them loose. 

"What?"

For the shortest second, he looks tempted to tell her but Lucifer shook his head. "No, I. . .it's rather silly, I think."

"No, come on, tell me." She shifts in her seat so that she could look at him properly, "what is it that you truly desire?"

She meant it as a joke.

With everything that happened, she almost forgot about that shift in their relationship. But his mouth gaped and closed, his eyes fixed on her, "I. . .I want to get this bloody song out of my head!"

She didn't mean it, but she did laugh.

"I assure you, detective, my dilemma is very real." He glares at the keys, as if they've done him a great wrong by not revealing the tune he wants. Lucifer taps on a key and cringes. "Having this—this song in my head, it's honestly driving me mad, detective! Bit of a bugger, really."

She huffs out a small chuckle through a smile. "That bad, huh?"

Lucifer had just been mid-nod when he froze all over ams at first, her mind thought of the worst. But, there is no rough and frantic panic—Lucifer turned to face her, slowly, his grin slowly.

"Detective!" he exclaims cheerily, "I think I may just have a solution!"

He gives her a wide teethy grin, glancing between her and the piano. "Do you play, detective?"

Chloe lets out a laugh. "We've actually already had this conversation before, too."

"Oh." 

His falls for a moment, and she used to recognize that look in herself. A realization dawns on her and Chloe understands what he wants, what he's been longing for ever since he realized he an entire life of memories erased from his mind. She mentally berated herself—how could she not have realized this sooner?

What with being annoyed at his inability to remember anything, even with Linda so patiently helping out, or being unable to understand why Amenadiel kept walking on eggshells around him with the only explanation given to him is that he's his brother, Chloe finally understands that all Lucifer wants is to be on the page as everyone else.

She should have realized it because, for the longest time, that was her, she was in his position. She had been constantly confused, asking questions and she didn't where to even to begin. She was lost before she knew the truth.

Chloe touched his arm, calling him to attention. "I had three years of lessons," she tapped on a key, "and this is all I could remember."

He is breathless as he huffs out an amused, almost amazed breath of air. "Heart and Soul. Surely you must be joking. You can't be serious."

She almost slips, the words nearly falling out of her mouth, _you said that, too_ —instead, she nods, her lips twirling upwards as he tries to play along.

Only this time, his is much slower. Once in every few notes, his fingers miss and he hits a dissonant key that makes it sound wrong and he withdraws his hand with a shaky breath. 

"Hey, Lucifer," he looks over to her, "let's try again, yeah?"

And she opens the song again, this time matching his pace. She could see the concentration in his eyes, how he struggles but huffs out with a smile when he does get it right. Each time he gets it right, he gives this bright smile and there is a glow to him that makes her hold a different meaning to the term ' _lightbringer_ ' and—

"Lucifer!"

A voice calls out from behind and they stop playing, whipping around to see Trixie running out of the elevator doors.

Dan is trailing behind their daughter slowly, unsure of what to say, of what to do. He's heard, of course, of what happened. Of how Lucifer was murdered and then mysteriously alive again, somehow, and yet he doesn't remember a thing.

But there is something else in her ex-husband's unsteady gaze. Guilt.

While Dan did shoot Lucifer a while back, tried to kill him, but that was when he was still at his most vulnerable. Chloe would be the last person to try and make excuses about her ex's mistakes, but she knew that what had happened in the penthouse hadn't been his fault. Dan had been trying so hard to turn over a new leaf, when he had been hurting after Charlotte, he was just trying to get his life back on track before his whole world had been upended by Michael and his deception.

Michael's manipulation had just been that—manipulation, because despite the rockiness of their relationship, Dan knew that Lucifer was a good man.

"Ah," Lucifer greets them, standing up only for his legs to be tackled by her daughter.

"Trixie, babe," she says slowly and gently, occasionally glancing up at Lucifer, "we've talked about this." Trix loves Lucifer, and a rejection like the one she had seen the when she first learned about his amnesia, the fear and lack of recognition in his eyes, no matter how much he didn't mean for these things to happen, was a pain she didn't want her daughter to go through.

"Detective, I believe your spawn's come to fetch you." 

But the tightness she expects from Lucifer, the same awkwardness and borderline fear of children does not come. In fact, she sees how relaxed he is, there's no tension in his shoulders or how he isn't making up ways on how to get rid of Trix.

But even with that small victory, there isn't a spark of recognition from Lucifer. 

"Hey, man," Dan approached them, gebtly tugging on Trixie's backpack, giving her a small, soft smile and pulled her back a little if only to give Lucifer some space, "how, uh, how are you?"

Lucifer slowly reached out his hand. "Detective Daniel Espinoza, yes?" Dan mirrored the action and they cautiously shook hands while Trixie, from the side, grinned widely.

And everything is going smoothly until—"Daniel, that bracelet," he breathes out, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

At that Dan gave a scoff. " _And_ he's back." There is, for a moment, a look of annoyance flashed across Dan's face. But he softens. "But really, though, I'm glad you're okay, man." 

"But that bracelet—"

"I know!" Dan says a bit rightly, but she knows he is trying when he takes a deep breath and brushes it off, trying to remain positive. "Why on Earth would I want this, I know man, you said it once." 

"No, it's not tha—" but before Lucifer can continue, Trxie tales him away, regaling him to tales of her day.

"Hey, Chlo, listen, there's been this quarterly evaluation at Trix's school, admin called in a half day." She worked the math up in her mind. It's his week. "But, uh, chief assigned me lead on a case working with Major Crimes, time sensitive, I was hoping maybe we could trade this week for now?"

Chloe looked over to where Trixie is talking to Lucifer. "Have you talked to Trix about it?"

"Yeah," he nods, looking over to where their daughter is, too. "She understands, and she says it's okay, that we spent a lot of time together when. . ."

He trails off, unable to meet her gaze for a while. There is a lost apology on his lips but she waves it off. She knows he is sorry and she forgives him for it.

"And she kept asking about Lucifer, thought I'd hit two birds with one stone."

"I just wish you would have told me first," she chances a glance at them, already seated om the sofa. "I just don't want Trixie to be hurt when she expects Lucifer to behave in a way he couldn't."

"I know, Chlo. I don't want her to get her hopes up—" But before he could say anything else, his phone rings. "Chief," he reads the caller ID on his phone and grimaces. "Listen, I have to go. Thanks again, Chloe. I'll make it up to Trix, I promise."

"I know," she says softly. For all of Dan's fault, being a bad or absentee father isn't one of them. "Good luck with your case. And be careful, please."

He looks up at her and nods just before the elevator doors close in on him. 

She listens in on Lucifer and Trixie on the couch, "—and then we'll have double fudge chocolate cake, like we always do! Or maybe we'll do game night and play Monopoly! Remember that time when you tried to buy yourself out of Monopoly jail using real money?"

He stutters. "I, er, I'm afraid not, child." He points to his head. 

Trixie gave him a long appraising look. "That's okay, but you have to remember. Promise?" 

Chloe crosses the room and kneels down, placing her hand on Trixie's knee when Lucifer leaves the sofa to go look for a drink for Trix. "Babe, remember what I said about what happened to Lucifer?"

She slows down, the grin on her face faltering slightly. "I remember," she confirms. "A bad man hurt Lucifer and now he can't remember stuff."

"Yeah, monkey," she follows Trixie's gaze: Lucifer searching the cupboards of his bar, seemingly lost with every cabinet door he pulls open. "And that's why we have to be patient with Lucifer, yeah?"

"But Mom—"

"Trixie, we have to be patient with Lucifer. His memory should come back at his own pace, okay, babe?"

"But, I came prepared!" she whines, but before she could say anything to her daughter, a voice cuts in.

"Prepared for what?"

Trixie lets out a happy squeal, rushing to remove the straps of her backpack from her arms and pulled out an almost worn looking scrapbook. "This!"

Lucifer, who is standing in front of them, holding up two different flavors of Capri Sun, could only helplessly toddle on forward, trying his best not to fall down when Trixie took him by the arm and pulled him down to his spot on the sofa.

"An art project?" Lucifer ran his finger through the cover and did his level best not to grimace when the pad of his hand is covered in multi-colored glitter. "Well, A for effort, spawn."

Trixie giggled, "No, silly!" she turns the cover and Lucifer goes from a mild disinterest to a growing curiousity. "This is for you!"

The scrapbook has pictures of Lucifer throughout the years they've knowm one another.

"Oh, this is from the time I became—" her daughter stood up with a flourish and twirled around, "— _Trixie Morningstar_."

They are in his Corvette. His hair dances with the wind, his eyes glued to the road and Trixie took that moment to snap a picture. The caption under it reads: 

_"I said I'd drive you **to** school. I never specified which one." _   
_-Lucifer_

Lucifer's name is fixed under the quote, scribled in with Trixie's loopy cursive.

"We made a deal. You told me I could drive your car but Mommy said no." Trix's eyes crinkled in delight, though. "But you took me out for ice cream and double fudge chocolate cake and bumper cars," Trixie looks over to her with a placated look, "we called it even."

Lucifer focused on the scrapbook and flipped to the next page. "Alright, then, child, what's this?"

Chloe breathes in sharply. 

It's of Trixie, Lucifer, and Maze.

Ever since God's intervention, no one has seen Maze. Although Amenadiel's visited Hell, back when they thought Lucifer was dead, he didn't see her down there. Thankfully, Trixie didn't notice as much of Maze's disappearance. Dan told her, when they were still in New York, that Trixie was under the impression that Maze had been away hunting a bounty.

"Oh, that!" Trixie cheers brightly before tilting her head at Lucifer. "This was when you were hurt. You said your Mommy hurt you."

In the photo, Trixie is dressed up as a doctor and Maze's head had been covered in a toy gauze. Lucifer's injuries looked much more real, Lucifer is glaring at a smiling Trixie and Maze, the latter holding up a lollipop.

There is a caption for this photo, too. 

_"Wussies don't get any."_   
_-Trixie_

"You didn't get a lollipop because Maze said you were being a baby." Unapologetically, Trixie shrugged. "Wussies don't get any."

But Chloe's attention had been divided then. "Wait, monkey, what did you mean that Lucifer's mom hurt him?"

"They talked in code." She placed her finger thoughtfully on her chin. "Something about light-spewing and getting hurt." Trixie then shrugged. "I didn't really understand."

Instinctively, she looked to Lucifer.

"Well, don't look at me, detective," he remarked before tapping just the side of his head. "Amnesia, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," but she still gazes at him when he returns his attention to the scrapbook. His skin had been darkening in the picture, a few shallow cuts and grazes on his cheek. 

But it had been his mother. His mom hurt him. Chloe thinks back to that day at the pier, the fear in Lucifer's eyes when he came with the blade. He had been so scared of his mom.

That realization brought his stomach a grounded feeling. All that time, she kept lecturing him on moving on and going forward, he had been battling this? 

Chloe looked over to her daughter, happily and animatedly pointing out the little details of the picture. She could never imagine hurting her daughter like that, she could never imagine having to hurt her child that he'd be shaking as he confronted her that day on the pier.

Unable to help herself, as Trixie flips through paged, she gathers her daughter from behind and loops her arms around her waist, embracing her with one hand, and reaching Lucifer's hand with the other.

"Oh, this looks promising!" Lucifer smiled at the next photo. "Tell me, child, what's this?"

"This," she point out proudly, "is Monopoly. We always play it when you come over for game night!"

There are stickers all over that page, more photos, too. "And we play this infernal device of torture you call," he squints on the words, "a board game?"

"Yup!" 

The first picture is familiar. Chloe remembered taking that photo of Lucifer and Trixie. It was his first time playing and Trix had been explaining all the rules to him, which Lucifer almost blatantly ignored when they started playing.

_" **Please**. I am not a shoe."_   
_-Lucifer_

She nearly laughs at the caption. Chloe could almost hear his voice as she reads it in her head.

Lucifer and Trixie are engrossed in their conversation and she took it an angle where his face painting is clear and visible.

The page is flipped and Chloe could not help the small, soft sigh that came out of her lips. This was movie night.

Like the game night photo, it is of Lucifer and Trixie. She took this one, too.

Chloe remembers this night like it was yesterday—Trixie wanted to do a Disney marathon. They were just in the middle of the third movie, The Lion King, when she spotted Lucifer and Trixie already asleep.

Lucifer's arm is thrown over the couch, but his suit jacket is blanketed over Trixie. Her daughter's head leans over to his chest and she is drooling all over the crisp, white button-up dress shirt. 

In all honesty, they looked adorable and he looked almost domestic and the sight in front of her did not help the train of thought she had in her mind—Lucifer and Trixie are laughing aloud at new pages of the scrapbook, her daughter's voice filling in when in some gaps as she explained when and what the photo is about.

She wanted that with Lucifer. In a way, ever since he became a part of her and Trixie's life, she's wanted him in her life.

Her mother was right. He had her back.

And the short, brief time they were together, when seemingly everything was right, she felt these things, too. But her fears were there and Michael had manipulated them.

But seeing him now like this, laughing unbashedly at an embarrasing photo of him that Trixie took, a lightness to him, as if all his troubles, his past hurts and trauma couldn't reach him, Chloe realized that she's never seen him this free, this happy.

And seeing him like that wondered if maybe it was better that way.

"Oh," Trixie's deflated voice jars her back to reality. "This is different."

The last page's photo is different indeed. Instesd of the light hearted photos she took of Lucifer and Trixie, or the selfies the two shared, this one doesn't have her daughter altogether.

It is of her and Lucifer. 

They are locked in an embrace, Lucifer holding as she held on tight to him. "When did you take this, monkey?"

She didn't really have to ask, she knew. It was the day they caught her father's real killer. She knew that Lucifer had issues with his own father, talking about parental figures, in general. But the way he tried to comfort her, even being scared to when she cried, it had been one of the moments she knew she could truly trust her partner, where deep down a part of her knew that despite all the eccentricities, she wouldn't have him any other way.

That she would rather have him in her life than not.

"You were sad, Mommy." Chloe kept looking at the photograph, eyes glassy, mirroring the captured moment. "And Lucifer became the friend you needed."

"Yeah, he did." She looked over to him, a comforting look on his face that let know, despite everything, that if she needes someone, he will always be there. "He still is."

Lucifer gave the brightest, most genuine smile.

But in the end, it was Trixie's crowing laughter that had them all laughing together. 

_"Just shut up."_   
_-Mommy_

* * *

Trixie had the gift of persuation that should have given the Devil a run for his money if only he remembered. Somehow, her daughter's roped her along to play Monopoly and a Pixar movie marathon.

But when the sky darkened, Trixie had already fallen asleep when Lucifer's next detail had arrived to relieve her of her shift.

She didn't really want to go but she knew she had to. Trixie still had to go home, maybe work through a few of her homework and projects through the weekend and as much as Chloe enjoyed seeing her daughter and partner catching up, being incredibly happy, she needed to figure out what happened to Lucifer first.

While a new officer from precinct cased the penthouse, standard procedure during handing over of shifts, Lucifer rode down the elevator with her, carrying Trixie as they walked over to her car. 

When she unlocks the door, she could see him as he stands longer in his spot. Any other day, had the situation been different, she would have teased him about it.

He always said he didn't like children, but he holds on to Trixie, almost protesting their leaving.

"I had a great time, detective," he tries to play it off cooly, but his gaze softens when he looks at Trixie. "Feel free to bring the little urchin around as frequently as you want. She's promised me a rematch of this Monopoly business to reclaim my dignity and I assure you, I plan to collect."

Instead of answering, she takes him in for a hug. "Thank you," she breathes out, "for Trixie, for today."

"Of course," she steps back and offers him one last look before sliding in the driver's seat.

"Goodbye, Lucifer."

"Goodbye, det—" he catches himself, stopping mid word, "Goodbye. . . _Chloe_."

Lucifer watches from his spot, still and unmoving, offering a wave when she pulled out of the parking space and drove away.

* * *

When Chloe tucks Trixie in for bed, her little monkey already fast asleep, she calls in a sitter to watch her for just a short while.

That's how Chloe found herself, driving out of the congested traffic of downtown LA to a much more quiet part of the city in the suburbs. 

She lets out a shaky breath when she knocks. "It's open!"

Chloe pressed her palm flat against the door and pushes herself in. The smell of food fills the room and wafts over to where she is standing and Amenadiel briefly turned around to greet her.

"Hi, Amenadiel," she waves weakly, glancing around the room to see if Linda was around. "Is, uh, is Linda here?"

As if in cue, there is a shrill, indignant yell from Charlie coming from the baby monitor and what follows is Linda's attempt to placate him.

"Yeah, she's just taking care of Charlie right now." He glances at her once more, quickly going back to focus on what he is cooking, but his attention is now divided. "Something's happened."

She shook her head. "No. Nothing like that. It's just that I was hoping to maybe speak to Linda about something." 

"I think she'll be down in a minute." 

She shifts her feet in the uncomfortable silence. "So, did you see anything on the beach?"

He sighs, turning the heat down and placing the skillet aside to talk to face her. "Honestly, no. I didn't see anything that might have meant something, that might explain why Lucifer lost his memories—but what bothers me is that celestial, we aren't like humans. Sure, we can self-actualize but we're different. We don't just forget, not like this, not suddenly, not unwillingly."

Chloe's brows furrowed and she is about to ask him more on that when Linda exits a room. "Oh, Chloe, hi!"

"Hey, Linda, can we talk?"

Her fingers are fidgeting and gave Linda a pointed look. The therapist quickly understood and lead them to the couch. 

"You know, Lucifer feels bad about what he said earlier, how he acted. He feels sorry." 

Linda waved it off. "Lucifer's been my patient for a while now. I've got the hang of his outbursts." But she gave a smile nonetheless. "But of course, hearing it out loud helps. It shows that I've reached out to him, connected to him deeper than I expected to. It's good progress." But she took a closer look at her, Linda's analytical eyes studying her, the smile falling off her lips. "But you're not here for Lucifer, are you? You're here for you."

"It's just—" she breathes in sharply, the words rambling on inside her head and all she could think of was the day with Lucifer and Trixie, "—it's the first time he hasn't been weighed down by his self-hatred, or his issues with his father, or the fact that he literally spent thousands of years being forced to punish, that he spent most of his life in literal Hell, being continuously blamed for man's evil thoughts and actions and all of that trauma. . .it's the first time he's actually _free_ from them."

Linda gave her a narrowed look, realization dawning on her. "You don't want his memories restored."

"Ever since I met Lucifer," she breathes out, her hands gesturing widly in the space in front of her, "when I found out about emotional scars, I can't say that seeing him that light and happy isn't something that I wish for him, because I do."

"Chloe," Linda says softly, "I want that for him, too. Not just as my patient but also as my friend."

"Yeah?"

"But until the attack on him, until his amnesia, Lucifer has had thousands of years of experience and memories and personalities that defined him."

"Most of those memories and experience were bad."

Linda nods and concedes. "I won't lie. The emotional trauma in Lucifer runs deep. But can you say that every memory he's made is bad? Even the memories he's made when he started working with you?" Linda glances at Amenadiel, who's watching the exchange between them. "Take Amenadiel, for example, from a long time ago, while Lucifer didn't exactly hate his brother, they never had a bond this close, can you say that it's bad thing?"

"But is it so bad that I want to shield him away from that pain?"

"I know. And it's not a bad thing, in fact it's perfectly natural to want to shield out loved ones away from a pain that's scarred them, but be honest with yourself, Chloe—is he really the same Lucifer you fell in love with?"

"I just—" she mulls over the words and sighs. She's right, deep down inside, Chloe knows that her friend is right, "—I just can't help but think that this is a gift, that this is the life he's supposed to have but. . ."

"But?"

"Is it selfish?" she asks, scared of the answer, "Is it selfish of me to not want him to have his memories back even though it's what he wants. I just want to keep away his inner demons, the pain of his past, and to take away all the bad memories and—"

"Chloe!" Amenadiel exclaims, pacing around in huge steps. "It all makes sense now!"

"Amenadiel, what makes sense?"

"What Chloe said! That's the answer!"

Linda is astounded. "No. We need to get his memories back. We need to solve his murder."

"No, no—I meant what Chloe said: _take away his bad memories_!" Amenadiel huffs out a breath of air. "I'm right. Angels don't get amnesia, not suddenly, not unwillingly, something like this is powerful, divine maybe. Maybe Father?" he looked up at the ceiling before shaking his head, "No, Michael? No, he doesn't have the ability to do even that—"

"Amenadiel!" Linda calls out. "What is going on?"

"Lucifer doesn't have amnesia!" he breathes out before his face went blank and incredibly still. "Something happened in the Silver City, and I don't know what lead to this but someone stole Luci's memories."

* * *

No matter how hard he tried, Lucifer couldn't play the piano the way he did earlier with the detective.

He must have spent hours staring at those bloody white keys and cursing the high heavens above why couldn't he play. There is this itching feeling in his fingers that begs to play the keys of the instrument, but his hand shakes every time his hands hover over the piano.

Defeated, he sighs into his palms, the keys of the piano sounding a distorted groan when his elbows dig into the keys. Something doesn't feel right.

There had been a B&E apparently, five blocks away from Lux and no one other than his protective detail is close enough to respond. Admittedly growing sick of being watched over like a helpless child, Lucifer would have to plead guilty to having all but shooed the young, wary officer out of the penthouse and to respond to that crisis.

The penthouse, he discovers, is silent. A part of him missed the light banter and laughter he had heard just a few hours earlier when the detective and her offspring kept him company. 

Done for the day, Lucifer stood up and crossed the room into the bar. He twists around, not sure where to find the glasses when he spots them, neatly tucked inside a cabinet.

The sloshing of the amber liquid takes him in fascination when something catches his eyes—

It is a bracelet.

Lucifer frowns, his fingers curling up around the stone—

_"What am **I** doing? What are **you** doing? He's the **Devil** and you've known about it all this time?!"_

His hand flew to his chest, just right below his heart. Lucifer breathes heavily, his chest heaving up and down, his finger just barely tracing over the outline of where the bullet had hit him.

_Plonk!_

Lucifer looks down inside the cabinet and he sees a bullet, one that had been dented and had caved in, like it had hit metal or bullet-proof kevlar—

_"It's the bullet. From when you shot me. Remember, in the warehouse."_

A phantom pain erupts in his leg. Lucifer gasps from the memory of the pain that lingers in his leg. From when she shot him.

Everything blacks out for a moment, little spots dancing in his vision in a quick blur. Lucifer sways from left to right, dizzy and nauseous come up to mind when he sees his reflection.

The pain leaves him breathless and it hits him, square in the chest—he remembers. 

All of a sudden, just like that, he remembers everything and it comes back to him in one unsteady of wave.

He remembers the fight with Michael, Dad, the family dinner. . .he needs to warn Amenadi—

"Hello, brother."

He whips around, the high from his memory fading upon his hearing of the voice. Lucifer takes his moment, almost punishing the intruder while he slowly drinks from his glass.

"Hello, Gabriel, or should I say officer?"

Gabriel stood before him, an unamused look on his older brother's face. Gabriel is dressed in an LAPD beat cop uniform, badge brightly reflecting the light from his bar. 

His security detail had been Gabriel, the trickster angel. Of course he was.

"I'd say that it's a pleasure to see you here on Earth, but we both know that I don't lie." He groused before narrowing his eyes on the uniform. "I mean, seriously, Gabby, _Officer Gabe Friel_? How utterly unimaginative. It's like you're not even trying to hide yourself!"

Gabriel steps in from the shadows of the balcony and into the light of the penthouse. "Yes, well, it's all part of the act, you know— _trickster_ ," Lucifer rolled his eyes when Gabriel made an elaborate work of divine light dancing on the tips of his fingers.

 _Show off_. 

"Lovely trick and all," Lucifer says with a sharpness of his voice that even he himself didn't expect. Despite the hurt Gabriel's caused his family on Earth, Lucifer had to admit he didn't expect his brother to acrually pull it off, "but don't count on me to be on board for round two—I've had enough mind-altering mojo for at least a century."

But whatever light banter they exchanged, despite somewhat strained, had vanished. Gabriel's eyes darkened. "Don't you understand what this means? Samael—"

"That's _not_ my name!" Lucifer growled, his eyes flashing a menacing red, mirroring the fires of Hell.

"Fine," huffs out Gabriel, sulking as he crosses his arms over his chest, " _Lucifer_ , then. I need to do it again."

"What?" he barks incredulously, "Take my memory? Brother, I think you're the one having problems—II just told you, Gabby, I won't let you steal my memories away again."

"I _found_ you!" Gabriel pointed out sharoly and urgently, not unkindly but it was to a point of hurried desperation. "If I can find you, what more than Dad's actual right hand man sitting on his throne?"

Lucifer scoffes into his glass. "Please," he rolls his eyes. Gabriel was always one of the more dramatic ones of his siblings, a bonafide drama queen beating out Castiel's infamous karaoke streaks. "You're here on Earth, keeping an eye on me, of course you'd sense the return of my memories."

"There was a shift," Gabriel enunciated with a glare on his face, "just a little longer and Amenadiel would have noticed it, too."

Lucifer grinned. " _Finally_!" he exclaimed, much to the annoyance of his older brother, "A good idea coming from you, let's involve Amenadiel!"

"Are you mad?" Gabriel crossed the room and snatched the glass away from his hands. 

"I was drinking that!" he protested as Gabruel tossed it across the room, the sound of glass crashing and breaking to a million pieces following suit soon after.

"The fact that Amenadiel doesn't know, the fact that his divinity is clouding yours is the only shield we have against Michael finding out. Besides, this is Dad's plan."

The name draws out a strained pause in their words and an even more static tension. "Really? You're going to talk about that, about _Dad_? His plan? What happened in Heaven, was that part of his master plan as well?"

"You know what I mean, Luci," Gabriel grumbled, leaning back so he could rest on the bar counter. "What happened was a mess but there must be a reason why Dad kept Amenadiel safe here on Earth and away from what happened in the Silver City!"

Lucifer scoffed. "If anything, maybe the cruel, manipulative bastard hated that his firstborn is much better at being a father than him and decided to revoke his invitation to the family dinner," he put his hands together and closed his eyes, fervently repeated Amenadiel's name, willing him to the penthouse, but nothing came.

"What? Surprised our big brother isn't here?"

Lucifer sputtered, but his smarts caught up to him and his eyes narrowed into slits. "No," he whispered as he paced around, looking for Amenadiel and his righteous scowl of Dad's fury. "But I prayed to him."

Gabriel points at himself dryly. "Archangel of communication, remember?"

"Of course you bloody are," Lucifer grumbles under his breath and tears his hands apart from one another. "I just don't see why we need to keep Amenadiel in the dark. The more siblings we can get, the better."

Gabriel sighs. Lucifer knows he's pushed on a button, in fact he exhales slowly and tightly. The aftermath of the dinner had been something beyond his worst nightmare or anger—it was a massacre, an cruel violence that no one needed and all of that to feed a hunger for power.

All of that because the Dad-damned prophecy was kicked off by an omen that they thought to be the world ending prophecy. 

"Did you find any of them?" Gabriel shook his head and Lucifer inhaled sharply. His flask is inside his suit and takes it out for a swig. Gabriel looks at him, contemplating on whether or not to throw the flask away, but decides against it. His drinking is the least of their problems.

"No," his brother admits and Lucifer sighs. "Azrael's missing, I don't know whether or not she's in Heaven or Hell or here on Earth. The others? They're still scattered here and I can't reach any of them, or hear their prayers."

Lucifer clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling, focusing his eyes on his face, imagining a scar running from the tip of his eyebrow and down to the bridge of his nose and to his cheek. "And Michael?"

"He doesn't know." In the moment, Gabriel gave up and grabbed a glass for himself, pouring a lighter colored drink. "For now, he doesn't know and we need to _keep_ it that way. You have to be hidden away from him." Then, Gabriel looks at him the way he always did when they were younger—soft and gently as if he was a child. "It's worked well so far, Luci."

" _Well_ ," he parrots, the alcohol burning through his tongue and throat with a hiss. "Sure, if you consider my murder via the mutinous first demon of Hell, then fine—it's going bloody marvelously."

Gabriel did a double take. " _First_? You mean to say that—"

"Yes, yes," he waved off, "Dad's first man who's decidedly not good enough to live in his gardens and was given a one-way express ticket to Hell." Despite his brash words, Lucifer shuddered at the thought of his yellow eyes. "Old yellow-eyes had moves even Uri would have had trouble understanding or predicting." He gestures to himself with a flourish and a cocky grin, " _Exhibit A_."

A silence fell over them again. "Uri, you know, he would have been helpful," Gabriel points out but not unkindly. "His gift with the patterns would have foreseen this."

"Like Uriel saw me using the blade against him?" Lucifer grimaced. Killing their brother was a guilt that would continue to weigh over him. That was his brother—but he would have killed Mum and he would have killed Chloe and he could never regret keeping the detective safe.

Gabriel shrugs grimly and stonily. "If it was part of Dad's—"

"Don't you start again with all of God's plan, Gabriel." His voice held an edge of sharpness that shocked even him. "Pretty stupid of him to plan out a world-ending prophecy and his own. . . _well_ , so much for Dad's grand plan."

"Regardless, that wayward priest is a gift, Lucifer." The words had him choking on his drink. Kinley and the whole send-back-to-Hell debacle, a _gift_? Lucifer would sooner have impaled himself than admit it for a blessing. 

The entire mess with Kinley had diminished any respect he's earned from some of the peskiest little demons of Hell. The demons could have taken Charlie or hurt the urchin, or the detective—how could that be the plan of a benevolent god, how could he see that as a blessing?

"It's not a bloody gift!" the pain and betrayal he's felt, the hurt he and the guilt Chloe felt? That could never be a gift.

"But it is!" Gabriel stressed, "It may have kicked off the prophecy, set the stage for it, but at least we have a timeline and while unfortunately, you weren't able to protect yourself again Azazel, unheard of coming from God's brightest angel—"

"Because I bloody didn't know who I was and why someone was attacking me, let alone the art of Hell-fighting, brother!"

Gabriel caved in and acquiesed the point. "Like I said, regardless of your death," he looks over to his chest and Lucifer does, too. The mark is long gone, but he remembers the pain of Azazel weilding Azrael's blade over his skin and marking it with a number.

_1_

"There are still six seals to be unlocked. We just have to make sure that we don't unlock those seals."

"And what if someone else finds out about those seals? What if Amenadiel unwittingly unlocks them?" he gave a pointed look at his older brother. "You know it can happen, what with the last seal."

"We're not sure. Not everyone knows ancient Enochian, we might have understood it wrong." His older brother tries to convince him, but it does not work nearly as well as it should. 

"It's clear to me, brother—playing dumb isn't like you, Gabriel: one day, Azazel will fall to my hands and the Gates shall be lost."

"Then don't kill Azazel—we've got all the cards in our hands, Luci, all we need to do is play them right. We can change the prophecy."

They grimaced at the mention of the prophecy but Lucifer shrugged unapologetically. "If the first prophecy came to fruition—me back on Earth, coming to terms with my falling in love with Chloe, and demons raising hell—what makes you think we can avoid this one, Gabriel?"

He slumps back in defeat. "We can't. The irony of Dad's plans is that no matter how much we try to carve out our own paths, his hands are still in the mix, Luci—"

" _Exactly_!" Lucifer throws his arms in the air. "No matter what we do, his will still acts out on its own, fulfills it! So, what's the _bloody point_? Why even bother?" 

"Because it can go _both_ ways, Luci— _to **King or Prince** , the throne must fall_—you're the only king of any realm among our siblings and Michael is the archangel _Prince_ of Heaven, it's down to the both of you." Gabriel places a hand on his shoulders and they feel heavy, a weight of responsibility that rested on him. "The rebellion needs you, Lucifer, Heaven needs you."

It grounds him, just like that. Burns at his lungs and at his throat. "But the detective. . .Chloe—"

"She will be safe. She and her child, and our nephew and his mother, I will commit my life to their safety. You know I will—" then, he continues softly, gently, barely above a whisper, "—but I need to hide you from Michael and to do that, you need to forget."

Tears sting at his eyes. "But I want—" and he stumbles at what he wants. It's the same complex from back then, he wants to give Chloe a choice, to let her dictate her life and her decisions but deep down inside, he knows that he wants her to choose him. He wants her, he wants a life and happiness _with_ her. 

Lucifer knows it's the right thing to do. He's done it once before, when he went to Hell despite every fibre in his body telling him to stay with her. 

But he wants to stay.

He wants to remember.

"I know." He says sadly and Lucifer knew for a fact that his feeling is genuine. He feels it at his soul, the way he hates to do it but he also knows if they want to have a chance at defeating Michael, he has to sacrifice this part of him, his memories. 

"I just—brother, I just want to tell her it'll be alright, maybe apologize for the mess our family's made of things." And, in the back of his mind, burning through his thoughts day and night when he could remember it, he wants to say it.

He needs to say it. He yearns, _longs_ to say it.

Gabriel's face lights up. "That's—" he clears his throat, leaning forward, "—is that what you truly desire, brother?"

"It is."

"Then I have an idea."

* * *

Lucifer isn't sure of the idea. 

Communication through dreams isn't Gabriel's forte, in fact, while appearing to the Virgin Mary was a bit of a stick up—she was lucky her brains didn't melt into a puddle of goo when Gabriel appeared to her in a dream.

Dreams were their brother, Jeremiel's forte, being the angel of hopeful visions. But Jerry is missing and the closest he could get is Gabriel and his ways with communication.

They stood just outside her apartment, him and Gabriel, watching from the window. 

"If she prays for Amenadiel, he won't hear it." Gabriel clears his throat with a cough. "It'll look like a dream at best, or an exhaustion-fueled delusion. We don't have long, so be fast. The longer you remember, the harder it will be to mask your trail of divinity."

"Honestly," he grumbled, fixing and tugging on his cuff links. "I don't need the reminders, Gabby."

It's silly, wanting to look his best at 3 in the morning, but he wants to be his best for Chloe. But she's always seen the best of him, believed in the best of him because Chloe is the best of him.

"I'm not a child—you've said it nothing short of a million times. _Just_. . .let me be."

"Alright." Gabriel stepped back and into the shadows. "I'll back off. I'll meet you at the penthouse."

"Finally," he echoes his words earlier, his tone tinged with sadness, "a good idea coming from you."

* * *

There is a shift in the bed and Chloe nearly scrambles for her gun when she saw a flash of light screen through her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, hee bedroom was engulfed in darkness but a sliver of moonlight reveals a face in the dark.

She isn't sure if it's really him or if it's the wine talking. "Lucifer?" her voice is small, like she's afraid that if this is a dream and she spoke up any louder, she would have woken herself up.

He is kneeling on the floor, waiting by her side of the bed, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes.

"Chloe," he breathes out, his breath fogging up his eyes water and softens and she _knows_ —knows that it is him. 

He coaxes her back to the bed and her arms feel numb and weak and she nearly cries. "I don't understand, why are you here—my God, do you remember?"

He gave a mirthless, but not unkind, breathless chuckle. "Now that's an oxymoron."

She sees his face tight up, him grasping for words but he nods. "I don't lie, but you know that already, detective." His eyes crinkle and he pauses, for a moment, unsure on whether to just stay by the side or if he should come closer. It must have shown on her face because he sits on the edge of her bed and takes her in for an embrace. Chloe sinks in to his touch, to the feel and scent of him around her. 

But she is also nearly half-asleep. Her eyes are drifting close ever half a second and it takes longer for her to snap awake. "It's been _so_ hard, Lucifer—" and she cries into his arms.

She thinks back to Ella before. It's been one bummer after another. And she just wants it to be over, to have a piece of respite, of happiness with Lucifer without the world imploding upon itself with a world-ending prophecy or psycho twin brothers. 

She just wants him.

"I know, Chloe, and I'm sorry."

She tries to sit up, but the combination of having Lucifer in her bed, a somewhat wine-bogged mind does not make for functioning limbs. "Come now, love, rest, please. Sleep."

"I don't want to," she admits, her voice small, "I'm scared."

"And why's that?"

"I'm afraid that I'd wake up in the morning and this is all a dream and you don't remember."

His breath stutters. "Detective, I—"

"I just, please. . .can you stay with me?"

His mouth gapes, open and shuts. For the second time, she thinks it is a dream, but he shuffles deeper into the bed. "Of course, darling. While I could never use my mojo on you, I am happy with any opportunity to provide whatever it is you truly desire, Chloe." 

"I want you to stay."

"If that's what you want," he whispers, stroking her hair as his breathing lulls him to sleep, "then of course, detective. Whatever you desire."

"What I desire," she says, voice sleep-laced, "is for you to be happy, that we can just be happy—you and me and Trixie. For you to be free of all this, and it's okay even of you don't say it. It's okay."

"But I do want to say it, detective."

"Lucifer?"

He fidgeted in his seat. "I may not be expressive with what I feel, detective. And I know that you're scared, Chloe, but—I love you, despite not knowing why, of all the beings in the universe worthy of your time, your affections, your love, you chose me."

Chloe looks up, her gaze soft as it can be, "You chose me, too."

He gives a soft chortle. "What a pair we are, detective." His arms around her tightened in a protective embrace, like he was cherishing every moment he held her in her arms, like he could not bear to say goodbye and she wants to tell him that he doesn't have to say goodbye but a yawn cuts her off. 

"Sleep—"

"No," she says firmly. Chloe remembers a case from before when Lucifer insisted that he had been sleep-walking, angel style, and that he couldn't sleep. It felt like that, fighting to stay awake, to keep a grip on what she has in the moment, on what she doesn't want to lose. 

"I can't say that everything will be alright in a snap—" he leans down and pressed a kiss against her hair, breathing in the scent of her, the steady rise and fall of his chest gently trying to lull her to sleep, "—but I will always be by your side, detective. I will fight to make everything right again. I promise you. And you know, I'm a Devil of my word."

"Don't go," she says, half-asleep.

"Sleep now, love."

* * *

Chloe jolted awake in the dark and her eyes flew to the clock, the red LED light brightening to her touch—3:47 AM.

She looks around her room, eyes scanning every corner. "Lucifer?" she calls out but no one answers.

She sits up, rubbing the sleepiness away from her eyes. 

It was a dream.

Everything about it felt so real—the comforting timbre of his voice, the feel of his touch, the way he held her in his arms. It all felt so real and so Lucifer that she couldn't imagine it being anything other than real.

' _I will fight to make everything right again_.'

Even if it was a dream, Chloe reached out under her shirt and fiddled with the necklace, she looked up at the sky, in the direction of where Lux was—"I know you will, and I'll fight, too."

* * *

"How was it?"

Gabriel is sitting on the leather sofa when he returns, an indiscernible look on his face. "Are you—"

"Just give me a moment!" he snaps loudly and sharply, enough to make Gabriel stop in her tracks and stay frozen on the couch. "I just—" he takes a glass and fills it to the brim, "—I need a moment."

A rush of air bloss by his side and now Gabriel is standing to his right. "We don't _have_ a moment. Luci, this is for the best."

"Is it? How can I protect them from something I don't know, something I don't remember?" his mind flashes to Linda, to their nephew, to the urchin—to Chloe.

If he couldn't protect himself from Azazel, dying so easily without so much as a fight, then how could he expect himself to be of bloody use when bad people, when miscreants and scums of this earth comes after the people he cares for, the people he loves? He can't, not without his years, eons of experience in fighting, or his knowledge of everything—he couldn't even remember their song!

"Then I will protect them, Luci. In your stead. No matter what happens, I will protect them."

Lucifer looks up, his jaw locked up in a strained look. "Give me your word." He says roughly, eyes glowing a fiery red, "Give me your word that it will be done, Gabriel, and I'll do it."

He firmly held out his hand in the space between them. "Make a deal with the Devil and I'll do it—I'll forget about her—but make sure you protect them."

Gabriel gave him a deep, contemplating look, staring at his hand for the longest time. "You really do love her, don't you? A literal work of divinity's stolen your memories and yet when it comes to her, you could fight any celestial power if it meant remembering her—it's funny because out of all our siblings, I never thought that you, the Devil himself, would fall in love and willingly become vulnerable."

Lucifer tried to remins himself that it was for her own good. "She's a miracle."

"A bonafide miracle," Gabriel readily met his hand and shook with a deathly grip, a thunder sounding behind them as their oath is made. "You have my word."

"Good," Lucifer downs his drink in one swallow, the alcohol burning in his throat and tears stinging in his eyes, "let's get this done and over with."

Gabriel's hand is on his shoulder and he could feel his memories, one by one, being erased, starting from the beginning of time and slowly making its way to all of his memories.

He remembers Dad and Mum, back when the family was happy, then his rebellion, being cast out—the pain and the suffering being forced to do a job he hated, a duty he never asked for.

The faces he's met through the centuries start ro fade away—but it reaches his more recent memories.

Chloe flashes across his mind and even though he has to forget, he kept whispering her name, imagining her face, replaying her voice.

 _Chloe_.

* * *

Lucifer woke up on his leather couch.

He didn't know what happened, but a polished bottle of high-end cognac that fell side-ways to his right gave him a clue as to what could be the reason why he can't remember anything.

His shoulders are stiff and he lets a groan before he could even think about it. The Italian leather sofa, it appears, is much more aesthetic than functionality because his back aches when he stands up, a crick when he attempts to twist and bend.

He makes his way to the bar, eager to get something cool and soothing to nurse the dryness in his mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he huffs in discontentment when they are cracked and splintered—what exactly, he asks himself, happened last night?

Lucifer finds an empty glass, upturned and used, but he really couldn't care less. He fills it up with tap, the glass mercifully cool against his skin and he looks up only to see his reflection.

There are scattered bottles around him. He must have had a wild, devilish night worthy of his name.

"Huh," he murmurs, squinting at the bottle's label and back at the reflection, "must have drunk one too many."

Because that's the only possible explanation as to why there are bloody white wings hanging off his back.

* * *

Amenadiel could never get used to the sight of the elevator doors slowly sliding open that allows him a moment to let the character of the penthouse sink in.

In every nook and corner of the penthouse, he sees the little tell-tale signs of Lucifer's. . .Lucifer-ness.

He lets his gaze flicker towards the study. He remembered having found Lucifer in Stratford-upon-Avon when he had a jaunt over with William Shakespeare. Luci had been the one who introduced the writer to cannabis and cocaine, after all.

In fact, Amenadiel knows that somewhere, in one of the books in the study, there is a work my Shakespeare and a rolled up joint of cannabis hidden in the spine of the book.

Or maybe the Italian marble he had cashed in the deal from Lorenzo Medici when he had helped brought the conspirators of the Pazzi Conspiracy.

Or the piano—or any instrument he had an eye on. It had been a life he had lost and now that he stayed on Earth, each one of them represented him, a capsule that held, in a way, his soul.

It held his light.

There is a ruffling sound from the bedroom, the sound of glass crashing to the ground. "Bugger!" Lucifer cursed.

"Luci?" Amendaiel spoke up, inching forward. "Are you alright?"

Soon enough, Lucifer stepped outside and Amenadiel gaped at his brother.

"Luci, your have, er, your. . .you have—"

Lucifer waved it off with an unperturbed grin. "Ah, yes, bit of a bugger, isn't it?" he glanced at the arch of his wings, the glow they emitted, giving them a pensive, half-hearted flutter, amused as if he just did a party trick instead of having the literal tools of divinity out for anyone to see. "Wings!" Lucifer cheered, "Turns out I didn't dream it all up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I read the chapter again, it honestly feeling lacking. It dawned on me that keeping the deleted portion of the chapter made much more sense than deleting it.

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone wondering whether there'll be a continuation or if this is part of a bigger project—why, yes it is.


End file.
